UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CARGUNA 


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THE 


HOSE    BUD: 


BEING  A  SELECTION  OF 


/ 


INTERESTI^^G  STORIES. 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  PETER  PARLEY. 


NEW  YORK : 


PUBLISHED  BY  NAFIS  &   CORNISH, 

278    PEARL    STREET. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  m  the  year  1841, 
By  S.  G.  Goodrich, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  Massachusetts. 


STEREOTYPED  AT  THE 
BOSXaN  TYPE  AND  STEREOTYPE  FOUNDRY. 


CONTENTS 


Page. 

The  Dead  and  the  Living  Husband,  -  -  3 

The  Peasant  Giii's  Love,                 -  -  -  17 

The  Two  Kates,                 .             -  -  -  25 

Count  Rodolph's  Heir,         -             -  «  .  44 

The  Parting  Kiss,                -             -  -  .  75 

The  Lovely  Lady,               -             -  -  .  S5 

Women  are  Fickle,             -             -  -  •  94 

Love  in  the  Olden  Time,     »             »  -  «  204 

The  Muffled  Priest,              -             -  -  .  209 

Isabelle,  her  Sister  Kate,  &c.           -  -  -  121 

Spanish  Duchess  and  Orphan  Boy,  -  »-  127 

Snow  Storm  in  Scotland,    -             -  -  -  241 

Bertha  Cierville,     -----  156 

Love's  llecompence,            .             _  -  -  172 

The  Young  Minister  and  the  Bride,  -  -  175 

Tradition  of  Rolandseck,     -             -  .  -  186 

A 

On 

> 
1^ 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://www.archive.org/details/rosebudbeingseleOOgood 


THE  ROSE  BUD. 


THE    DEAD    AND    THE    LIVING 
HUSBAND. 

It  is  said  that  there  are  realities  in  life  more  sad 
and  wild  than  the  boldest  inventions  of  fancy  ;  and 
when  they  occur  at  the  gate  almost  of  the  calm  dwell- 
ing, and  near  the  happy  fireside,  they  startle  us  far 
more  than  if  met  with  m  wilder  scenes,  on  the  stormy 
wave,  or  on  the  desert  shore.  Yet  the  wave  and  the 
bold  shore  were  not  wanting  in  the  strange  scene  of 
the  following  tale,  which  is  perfectly  authentic,  and 
occurred  in  the  year  1812,  in  the  mining  district  of 
the  west  of  Cornvv^all. 

The  shafts  or  excavation,  from  which  the  rich  ores 
were  drawn,  bordered,  in  some  parts,  so  closely  on 
the  sea,  as  to  be  carried  here  and  there  even  under 
its  bed  ;  the  miners  often  heard  the  rushing  of  the 
waves  above  their  heads,  and  the  howling  of  the 
winds:  these  sounds  changed  according  to  the  weath- 
er. It  is  surprising  with  what  distinctness  noises  are 
wafted,  even  in  the  very  bowels  of  the  earth.  When 
seated,  in  their  intervals  of  leisure,  on  the  rocks  they 
had  just  hewn  asunder,  these  lonely  men  could  dis- 
tinctly hear  the  murmur  of  the  Vv'aves,  a  few  fathoms 
only  above  them,  and  their  quick  dash  on  the  cliffs. 
On  the  face  of  these  lofty  cliffs  some  of  the  workings 
were  carried,  by  which  the  ore  was  borne  above^.  and 


«  THE  DEAD   AKD  THE  LIVING   HUSBAND. 

the  weight  was  seen  moving  in  mid  air  over  the 
dizzy  rocks,  even  when  the  tempest  was  wildest,  for 
the  men  were  fearless  and  enterprising  ;  but  the  im- 
mediate scene  of  the  tale  lies  a  little  remoter  from 
the  beach,  and  farther  up  the  vale.  The  desert  valley 
where  Sindbad  found  his  diamonds  was  not  more 
unsightly  than  this  place.  Nature  was  all  withered 
up ;  the  blackened  piles  that  lay  around  were  as 
cheerless  as  so  many  tombs  —  not  the  tombs  where 
the  wild  flower  and  the  grass  have  gathered,  but  like 
those  of  the  suicide,  cursed  and  forsaken.  Crowds 
of  human  beings,  from  the  child  to  the  old  man,  were 
busily  toiling  here;  the  voices  that  rung  around,  and 
were  echoed  by  the  caverns  in  the  rocks,  were  gay 
and  loud  ;  and  many  a  song  was  sung,  for  dearly  they 
loved  their  work.  There  was  something  fascinating, 
no  doubt,  to  all  their  minds  in  this  wild  and  bold 
pursuit  of  riches  ;  for  miners  prefer  infinitely  to  hold 
the  smallest  share  in  the  fruits  of  their  discoveries, 
rather  than  accept  the  highest  reefular  wacres.  I  have 
seen  the  common  men  stand  and  point  to  the  heaps 
thickening  around  them,  with  as  much  pride  and  tri- 
umph as  a  soldier  would  display  pointing  to  the  field 
of  his  victory  ;  then,  folding  his  hands  on  his  breast^ 
the  miner  would  gaze  on  the  scene  in  silence,  and 
calculate  fondly  the  probable  gains,  while  his  little 
home,  filled  with  added  comforts  and  luxuries,  his 
wife  and  children  handsomely  attired,  rose  before  his 
eyes  :  it  was  a  beautiful  speculation  ! 

In  the  month  of  August,  one  of  the  chief  directors 
of  this  mine  of  Poldice,  by  name  Captain  William 
Nicholas,  went  under  ground,  in  his  accustomed  duty, 
to  see  how  the  work  advanced,  and  view  the  several 
pitches  or -tracts  of  earth  that  were  then  feeing  ex- 
cavated. He  had  been  to  the  bottom  levels,  and  was 
on  iiis  way  up,  when  he  called  at  one  of  the  pitches 


THE    DEAD   AND   THE    LIVING    HUSBAND.  5 

that  was  worked  by  two  men  :  it  was  the  last  he  had 
to  enter,  and  was  at  the  depth  of  about  twenty-three 
fathoms  from  the  surface. 

There  is  generally  in  a  mine,  as  in  a  ship's  crew, 
one  man,  at  least,  more  noted  for  his  wit  and  intelli- 
gence than  his  comrades,  and  a  kind  of  oracle  among 
them,  Pascoe,  one  of  the  two,  was  an  old  man,  and 
celebrated  for  his  almost  inexhaustible  fund  of  stories, 
and  jokes,  and  conversation.  His  earlier  life  had 
been  passed  at  sea,  and  he  had  wandered  to  many 
parts  of  the  world,  and  his  memory  retained  most 
that  he  had  seen.  Their  habits  of  life,  that  often 
place  these  miners  in  lonely  groups  in  the  bowels  of 
the  earth  during  the  whole  day  or  night,  of  necessity 
make  them  social  and  communicative,  Pascoe  was  a 
treasure  to  these  men,  and  glad  v/as  the  party  who 
could  get  him  among  them. 

The  battle  of  Salamanca  had  just  been  fought,  and 
Captain  Nicholas  was  very  desirous,  ere  he  ascended, 
to  have  some  talk  with  the  old  man,  for  he  had  been 
in  Spain,  Fate  does  not  leave  its  victim  sometimes 
without  kindly  whisperings,  that,  if  obeyed,  would 
save.  More  than  once  he  felt  a  strange  reluctance  to 
stop,  and  again  mounted  the  ladder  to  go  to  his  home, 
where  his  wife,  whom  he  tenderly  loved,  was  expect- 
ing him.  But  curiosity  prevailed,  and  he  turned 
aside  towards  the  spot,  which  he  soon  after  entered, 
where  the  tv/o  miners  were  now  eating  their  repast 
and  conversing  ;  he  stuck  his  candle  against  the  wall, 
and  sat  down  beside  the  old  man.  He  bade  the  other 
go  above  ground :  he  was  a  young  man,  the  son  of 
Pascoe  ;  and  he  said  afterwards,  that,  as  he  was  leav- 
ing the  spot  at  his  captain's  bidding,  Nicholas  turned 
to  him  with  a  singular  smile,  and  observed  he  did  not 
know  v/hat  was  come  over  him,  but  believed  that  his 
dream  the  night  before  had  brought  a  gloom  upon  his 


6  THE   BEAD   AND   THE  LIVING   HUSBAND. 

mind  ;  that  he  thought  he  was  buried  in  a  vast  tomb 
in  the  middle  of  the  earth,  and  the  waves  were  rush- 
ing all  around  him,  and  his  lonely  candle  that  he  held 
in  his  hand  never  went  out.  The  miners  are  a  very 
superstitious  people,  and  often  have  omens  and  warn- 
ings of  their  fatal  mischances.  He  had  been  married 
but  one  year  to  a  young  and  handsome  woman,  and 
was  himself  in  the  prime  of  life,  being  much  esteemed 
for  the  gentleness  and  kindness  of  his  manners,  and 
his  skill  in  the  conduct  of  the  mine.  His  dwelling 
was  on  the  side  of  the  hill  that  fell  abruptly  into  this 
wild  valley :  in  spite  of  the  sea  winds  and  the  soil,  he 
had  raised  a  sweet  little  garden  in  front,  and  from  his 
windows  could  overlook  every  part  of  the  busy  scene 
beneath.  Here  she  was  often  seated,  watching  for 
his  coming — for  the  moment  when  he  rose  out  of 
the  shaft,  with  his  candle  flickering  in  his  hand  at  the 
sudden  gleam  of  day,  his  large  flannel  garments  drip- 
ping with  water,  and  his  face  pallid  with  the  damps  of 
the  region  belov/. 

Their  attachment  was  of  many  years'  duration,  and 
was  hopeless  till  he  received  this  appointment;  and 
then  they  repaired  joyful  to  their  lonely  dwelling,  to 
which  the  stranger's  foot  seldom  came.  A  chance 
relative,  or  a  friend,  at  long  intervals,  would  call  and 
taste  of  their  hospitality,  and  look  wistfully  on  the 
waste  scene  around  ;  he  did  not  envy  them.  The  vale 
had  few  exciting  sights  or  sounds,  save  that,  in  the 
dead  of  winter,  —  for  it  was  a  dangerous  shore,  —  the 
signal  gun  was  fired,  and  the  alarm  lights  hoisted,  of 
some  vessel  driving  on  the  cliffs;  and  they  could  hear 
the  shrieks  of  despair,  and  see  the  wreck  drifting, 
not  far  from  their  walls.  But  for  the  excitement  of 
his  profession,  and  its  strong  contrasts,  the  mind  of 
Nicholas  might  have  wearied  also  of  the  scene;  but 
no  Arab  of  the  desert  felt  keener  joy,  as  the  lonely 


THE    DEAD    AND   THE    LIVING    HUSBAND.  7 

palm  and  the  fountain  met  his  eye  afar  off,  than  Nich- 
olas did,  in  the  midst  of  his  gloomy  toils,  as  the  hour 
of  his  ascent  to  his  beloved  home  approached.  And 
when  he  sat  there  beside  the  fire,  and  his  wife  was 
nigh,  and  bent  over  him  with  warm  kisses  and  en- 
dearing wotds,  and  evening  was  closing  on  the  bleak 
cliffs,  and  on  the  restless  deep,  that  fell  with  a  hollow 
sound  on  the  beach  —  he  felt  that  he  was  happy,  in- 
expressibly happy.  Such  a  moment  was  never  more 
to  come  to  the  doomed  man ! 

In  the  mean  time,  he  was  still  seated  far  beneath, 
by  the  side  of  Pascoe,  conversing  earnestly,  when 
they  suddenly  heard  a  rumbling  noise,  as  if  the  ground 
was  giving  way  near  them.  There  was  an  instant 
pause  in  the  old  man's  talk ;  they  looked  wildly 
round  for  a  moment  on  the  gloomy  sides  of  the  cavern 
that  enclosed  them,  and  then  on  each  other.  The 
noise  was  like  distant  thunder,  or  the  moan  of  the 
rising  tempest ;  it  lasted  but  a  few  moments,  and  then 
died  utterly  away.  "  It  is  only  the  men  working  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  shaft,"  said  the  old  man,  after 
listening  intensely :  his  companion  seemed  of  the 
same  opinion,  and  they  resumed  their  discourse  with 
the  same  ardor.  The  mine,  in  the  centre  of  which 
they  were  seated,  is  one  of  the  oldest  in  Cornwall, 
and  was  worked  some  hundred  years  since.  It  hap- 
pened that  the  noise  they  heard,  instead  of  arising 
from  the  men  working  opposite,  was  occasioned  by 
the  ground  beginning  to  run  in  at  a  level  about  ten 
fathoms  under  them ;  there  was  an  ancient  shaft  of 
the  former  mine,  unknown  to  any  one,  that  yawned 
like  a  gulf  to  receive  them.  The  sound  rose  sudden- 
ly again,  with  a  quick  trembling  of  the  earth  on  which 
they  were  seated:  strongly  alarmed,  they  sprang  to 
their  feet,  but  all  too  late.  The  noise  was  incessant 
and  awful ;  they  saw  the  roof  and  the  sides  of  the  cav- 


9^  THE   DEAD   AND    THE   LIVING    HUSBAND. 

em  tremble  on  every  side,  as  if  by  an  earthquake. 
In  all  the  horror  which  men  feel  for  the  last  few  mo- 
ments which  precede  inevitable  death,  they  ran  to  and 
fro,  calling  wildly  for  aid  :  no  human  power  could 
save  them  in  that  hour.  The  earth,  that  had  given 
way  slowly  on  every  side  beneath,  now  sank  at  once, 
and  the  whole  extent,  often  fathoms  deep,  between 
the  mouth  of  the  ancient  shaft  and  the  spot  where 
they  had  sat,  glided  down  with  the  swiftness  of  an 
avalanche,  bearing  the  unhappy  men  with  it,  while 
their  candles,  stuck  in  the  Vv'ali  above,  still  gave  their 
light,  as  if  in  mockery.  The  abyss  into  which  they 
fell  was  fifty  fathoms  deep,  and  half  full  of  water : 
there  was  a  faint  struggle  for  life,  a  dying  cry ;  the 
old  man's  voice  rose  louder  than  that  of  his  compan- 
ion—  and  then  all  was  silence. 

The  son  of  the  former,  who  was  bade  to  go  above 
ground  by  his  captain,  lingered  in  the  ascent :  it  was 
by  his  means  that  the  event  v^^as  first  known  :  he  was, 
at  the  moment  of  his  parent's  ingulfment,  climbing 
slowly,  and  turning  aside  from  time  to  time  in  search 
of  discoveries,  about  fifty  feet  above  the  place  where 
he  left  his  father  and  Nicholas  seated.  After  the 
noise,  the  cause  of  which  he  could  not  divine,  had 
subsided,  he  called  out  loudly  to  know  if  all  was 
right ;  but  was  rather  offended  that  he  could  not  get 
them  to  answer  him,  as  he  could  see  their  candles 
sticking  fast  to  the  walls  underneath,  and  thought 
that  his  father  and  Williams  were  still  seated  beside 
them.  He  continued  to  pass  over  the  brink  of  a  tre- 
mendous precipice,  not  aware  at  first  of  his  danger; 
but,  still  receiving  no  answer  to  his  calls,  he  scrambled 
nearer,  and  the  dim  horror  of  the  scene  was  then 
■opened  to  him  :  the  two  solitary  lights  cast  their  glare 
on  that  sudden  grave ;  he  could  see  but  a  small  part 
©f  its  depth:  all  below  was  the  "blackness  of  dark- 


THE    DEAD    AND    THE    LIVING   HUSBAND.  9' 

ness,"  up  which  came  at  intervals  a  sullen  splash, 
caused  by  the  falling  of  fragments  of  rock  or  stones 
into  the  water.  Once  he  thought  he  heard  a  voice 
calling  for  mercy,  and  that  it  was  his  father's :  he 
staid  not  long  to  look  there,  but  ascended  fast  to  the 
summit,  and  shouted  for  succor. 

The  wife  of  Captain  Nicholas  was  anxiously  wait- 
ing his  coming ;  the  dinner  hour,  a  very  early  one  in 
these  scenes,  was  past :  she  thought  some  unexpected 
occurrence  or  discovery  had  detained  him;  but  as 
the  time  passed  on,  she  stood  at  the  window,  whence 
every  object  in  the  mine  was  distinctly  visible ;  sud- 
denly she  saw  a  man  appear  at  the  mouth  of  the  shaft, 
with  gestures  of  despair,  and  he  cried  with  a  loud 
and  bitter  cry  ;  then  there  was  a  rushing  of  the  peo- 
ple to  the  spot.  And  she,  too,  rushed  from  her 
dwelling,  and  descended  the  hill  without  a  pause,  and 
mingled  with  the  crowd  :  their  looks  were  all  turned 
upon  her,  and  she  saw  there  was  anguish  in  them. 
But  no  one  told  her  the  cause  of  it ;  on  the  contrary, 
they  said  a  part  of  the  ground  had  merely  fallen  in„ 
and  obstructed  the  ascent  of  her  husband,  and  that 
they  would  quickly  extricate  him.  It  is  easy  to  com- 
mand our  words,  but  untutored  men  cannot  shroud 
the  strong  emotions  of  the  heart ;  and  in  the  gloomy 
and  pitying  eyes  of  the  stern  miners  around  her,  the 
widow  saw  that  all  was  over. 

"My  father  —  my  father!"  said  the  young  man, 
wildly;  ''will  you  not  save  him?  —  you  loved  him  in: 
life  —  will  you  not  rescue  the  old  man  ?  " 

Then  a  wild  shriek  passed  over  the  crowd,  and  the 
words  of  the  youth  were  hushed,  and  the  men,  and 
even  the  children,  turned  from  him  to  the  wife ;  for 
all  felt  that  the  love  of  woman  was  more  commanding 
than  that  of  a  son.  She  bent  over  the  fatal  gulf  and 
shuddered  -^  ''  My  husband !  —  is  that  your  grave  t " 


10 


THE   DEAD   AND    THE   LIVING   HUSBAND. 


Then  a  sudden  movement  rose  among  the  people, 
and  they  said  one  to  another  that  all  should  be  done 
that  men  could  do  for  their  captain;  and  seizing 
their  heavy  tools,  they  hastened  under  ground,  by  dif- 
ferent ways,  to  the  scene  of  death.  And  she  stood  at 
the  mouth  listening  :  each  sound  of  the  heavy  pile,  as 
it  struck,  and  then  the  rolling  away  of  the  earth  and 
stones,  came  up  the  gulf  faintly,  yet  horribly. 

"  O,  harm  him  not !  "  she  said;  "  for  God's  sake, 
do  not  let  the  stones  fall  upon  him  !  Canyon  see  him? 
—  can  he  move  his  hand?  — take  the  black  earth 
from  his  face,  that  he  may  breathe." 

It  had  been  mercy  had  they  found  the  body ;  but 
this  last  consolation  was  denied :  they  tried  all  that 
day,  and  the  following  day,  but  the  unhappy  men 
might  as  well  have  sunk  in  the  heart  of  the  ocean ; 
it  was  not  that  the  earth  closed  over  and  entombed 
them ;  but  the  water  into  which  they  fell  was  believed 
to  have  consumed  them  quickly,  even  like  fire,  such 
was  the  strong  property  of  the  mineral  with  which  it 
was  impregnated :  the  mundic  water  they  called  it. 
For  experiment,  they  tied  a  piece  of  meat  to  a  string, 
and  throwing  it  down  into  the  v/ater,  it  was  in  a  few 
days  totally  eaten  away:  then  they  were  persuaded 
that  the  bodies  also  were  consumed. 

Soon  after  this,  the  working  of  the  lower  parts  of 
the  mine  was  suspended ;  a  partial  decay  fell  on  the 
concern ;  many  of  the  people  sought  other  scenes  of 
toil  and  speculation.  The  aspect  of  the  valley  was 
no  longer  the  same.  The  cliffs  rose  as  sublimely, 
and  the  sweep  of  ocean  beyond  was  as  glorious ;  but 
fortune  dwelt  no  longer  there. 

The  widow  lived  alone  for  some  time  in  the  deso- 
late dwelling,  the  only  good  one  in  the  region ;  the 
others  were  only  cottages  of  the  miners  or  fishermen. 
Beneath  the  bold  precipices  the  boats  were  moored 


THE  BEAD    AND    THE    LIVING   HUSBAND.  It 

during  the  day,  and  at  eve  they  pushed  to  sea  with 
the  wind  off  shore.  The  vv^idow,  still  young  and  hand- 
some, refused  to  forsake  her  husband's  home.  The 
garden  went  to  decay,  like  the  once  busy  scene  be- 
neath. It  was  observed  that  she  always  shunned  to 
walk  near  the  fatal  place,  but  chose  the  summits  of  the 
cliffs ;  and  would  sit  there  for  hours,  looking  at  the 
vessels  in  full  sail,  or  at  the  fishermen  on  the  sands 
b^eneath,  pursuing  their  toil.  It  so  happened  that, 
alter  five  years,  this  state  of  life  grew  irksome. 
Tjiere  came  a  man  in  the  prime  of  life,  and  of  some 
prL>pfcTty,  who  sought  her  love;  and  she  married  him; 
and  they  continued  in  the  same  dwelling  on  the  hill 
side.  Whether  she  was  happy  there,  was  doubtful. 
A  melancholy  look  settled  on  her  countenance  as« 
well  as  her  heart ;  and  the  tenderness  of  this  second 
husband,  who  was  strongly  attached  to  her,  could  not 
dispel  it. 

Ten  or  eleven  years  after  the  fatal  occurrence,  it 
was  determined  to  again  work  the  mine  to  its  full  ex- 
tent. Many  of  the  old  miners  came  eagerly  back  to 
the  vale;  for  the  red  stream,  the  decayed  heaps,  the 
sea-beat  cliffs,  were  dear  to  their  eyes.  With  great 
and  prolonged  efforts  the  water  of  the  deep  shaft  was 
drawn  away  ;  for  they  sought  to  pursue  their  discov- 
eries in  that  direction.  The  body  of  the  old  man 
was  found  first ;  and  at  last,  standing  in  an  upright 
posture,  even  as  it  fell,  that  of  the  unfortunate  Nich- 
olas was  discovered.  But  instead  of  being  dissolved, 
it  was  in  a  perfect  state  of  preservation  ;  the  hand  of 
corruption  was  not  on  it ;  the  strange  property  of  the 
water  had  congealed  and  preserved  it.  The  limbs,, 
the  features,  the  clothes  —  all  were  there.  The  atti- 
tude was  not  that  of  a  man  who  had  died  in  horror. 
They  looked  on  in  astonishment  for  some  time,  and 
then   bore  it  to  the  surface.      The  men   gathered 


12 


THE  DEAD   AND   THE  LIVING  HUSBAND . 


Strangely  round  the  form  of  their  ancient  captain,  and 
after  consulting  briefly,  resolved  to  bear  it  to  his  wid- 
ow's dwelling.  When  they  drew  nigh,  the  people 
carae  in  such  numbers  around  that  it  was  difficult  to 
pass  through  them. 

The  second  husband  and  his  wife  were  seated  in 
their  parlor,  when  a  confused  clamor,  that  grew 
louder  every  moment,  approached  their  door  ;  and  at 
last  they  heard  the  voices  of  many  people  in  pity,  in 
wonder,  and  fear.  But  ere  they  could  know  the 
cause,  the  door  opened,  and  the  miners  entered,  and 
laid  the  dead  husband  at  the  feet  of  the  living  one. 
The  wife  looked  wildly  for  a  moment  into  the  face  of 
the  latter,  and  then  knelt  beside  the  body.  Those 
who  witnessed  it  said  it  was  an  awful  thing  to  see  her 
dabbling  with  the  hair  and  fingers,  and  kissing  the 
cheek  and  lips  of  the  dead,  who  had  been  the  prey  of 
the  grave  for  twelve  years.  The  love  of  woman  has 
been  called  by  a  great  writer  "  a  fearful  thing ; "  here 
it  was  a  glorious  and  indelible  thing,  that  could  thus 
laugh  the  king  of  terrors  to  scorn,  and  gain  the  vic- 
tory over  him.  The  living  husband  did  not  think 
so ;  he  sat  in  gloomy  silence ;  he  dared  not  speak 
his  feelings,  that  second  husband  ;  but  he  could  not 
bear  this  outpouring  of  tenderness  —  this  bursting 
forth  anew  of  affection,  that  he  had  thought  buried  in 
the  tomb.  Perhaps  no  man  could  support  unmoved 
the  sight  of  his  wife's  kisses  lavished  on  the  former 
husband  of  her  bosom,  and  her  tears  falling  in  tor- 
rents on  his  cheeks,  and  her  moans,  coming  from  a 
heart  tried  almost  more  than  it  could  bear ;  for  he 
had  been  the  love  of  her  youth  —  a  handsome,  a 
gentle,  a  generous  being :  such  was  not  the  partner 
of  her  life. 

"  Wiliiam,  my  own  William,"  she  said,  clasping  his 
nerveless  hand  almost  in  frenzy  in  her  own ;  *'  sent 


THE    DEAD    AND   THE    LIVING   HUSBAND.  13 

to  me  back  again  thus !     God  has  sent  you  back  — • 
in  mercy  !  O,  in  mercy  !  " 

The  husband  could  endure  no  longer,  and  strove 
to  lead  her  away ;  but  she  passionately  refased,  say- 
ing that  they  had  been  parted  twelve  years  —  that  the 
grave  had  been  made  to  forsake  its  prey,  and  should 
she  forsake  it  1  And  then  she  spoke  wildly  and  hur- 
riedly, as  if  addressing  him  —  that  his  aged  mother 
had  died  of  grief — that  their  infant  child,  tha"  she 
had  borne  after  his  loss  —  then  she  rose  suddenly, 
and  rushed  from  the  apartment.  The  friends  and 
relatives,  and  the  rest  of  the  people  who  had  looked  on 
#  in  strange  surprise,  and  even  horror,  strove  to  prevent 
her  design,  and  entreated  her  not  to  persist  in  it. 
But  the  mother  was  awake ;  and  neither  bars,  nor 
bolts,  nor  armed  men,  could  withstand  her  power  in 
this  moment.  She  drew  with  her  into  the  chamber 
her  only  child,  a  girl  of  nearly  ten  years  of  age,  and 
pointing  to  the  body,  made  her  kneel  beside  it,  nnd 
said  it  was  her  father !  The  child  shrieked  and  drev/ 
back,  and  refused  to  put  its  hand  into  the  cold  one  of 
the  dead,  or  to  press  her  lips  to  his.  The  second 
husband  was  the  only  father  she  ever  knew,  and  what 
was  the  lost  to  her  ?  Nothing  but  a  fearful  and 
ghastly  object,  she  would  not  love  it,  or  embrace 
it,  she  said.  But  *'  the  worms  were  not  around 
it; "  he  could  not  say  to  them,  "  Thou  art  my  moth- 
er and  my  sister."  What  a  world  of  meaning  is 
in  this !  We  cannot  know,  perhaps,  for  v;e  have 
never  been  tried,  with  what  fondness,  what  ardor,  we 
should  hang  over  them  v/e  have  loved  and  lost,  if  de- 
cay never  came  there ;  would  the  husband  turn  away 
from  the  wife  of  his  youth,  if  the  parting  smile  and 
look  still  slept  on  her  face,  and  the  beauty  of  that  face 
fell  not,  and  knew  no  change?  Would  the  mother 
not  lie  down  beside  her  lost  one,  and  press  the  cold 


14  THE   DEAD   AND    THE   LIVING   HUSBAND. 

hut  imperishable  form  to  her  breast,  as  if  life  and  joy 
could  wake  there  again?  So  felt,  no  doubt,  the  tried 
and  agonized  woman.  "  Just  as  he  fell  1  — O  God  !  just 
as  he  fell !  "  —  she  murmured,  as  her  thoughts  fell  back 
to  the  vale  by  the  sea,  where  they  had  lived  so  happi- 
ly, till  the  morn  when  he  dreamed  of  death  ere  it  came, 
and  took  a  sad  and  kind  farewell  of  her,  as  if  a  fore- 
boding even  then  was  on  his  mind. 

And  now  the  husband  sternly  interposed,  and  said 
;that  he  would  endure  no  longer-;  that  for  years  he 
had  striven  to  soothe  her  mind  and  chase  away  the 
gloomy  remembrances  of  her  loss,  and  the  dreadful 
manner  of  it ;  and  now  the  wound  was  opened  afresh, 
and  would  never  close,  and  the  kindness  of  the  living 
would  be  lost,  in  the  woman's  heart,  in  the  love  of  the 
dead.  They  looked  on  him,  and  saw  that  his  mind 
was  greatly  troubled,  and  that  his  passions  were 
roused.  Strange  that  jealousy  of  the  dead  should 
thus  enter  the  mind  of  the  living  ! 

He  stooped  and  spoke  some  v/ords  to  her  as  she 
knelt,  that  were  not  heard  by  those  around:  they 
seemed  to  move  her  strongly  for  the  moment,  for  she 
looked  wistfully  in  his  face,  the  expression  of  which 
was  sad  and  menacing :  then  she  rose  slowly,  took 
her  child  by  the  hand,  and  left  the  apartment.  Her 
relatives  saw  there  was  no  time  to  be  lost;  that  to 
leave  the  unperished  form  of  her  first  husband  beneath 
lier  roof  would  only  sow  dissension  and  useless  sor- 
row ;  that  it  could  not  and  must  not  be.  What  had 
he  to  do  in  this  breathing  and  busy  world  ?  Why  was 
'he  thus  cast  forth,  after  his  time,  when  the  wife  could 
not  claim,  and  the  child  would  not  own  him?  With 
all  care  and  reverence,  they  removed  the  body  to  an 
upper  chamber,  where  the  same  attentions  and  duties 
were  given  as  if  he  had  been  newly  slain;  but  no 
^nourners  came :  no  one  wept  over  him :  he  was  so 


THE    DEAD    AND    THE    LIVING   HUSBAND.  15 

long  lost  as  to  be  almost  forgotten :  to  the  second 
husband  he  had  ever  been  a  stranger.  The  latter, 
after  the  form  was  removed  from  his  sight,  as  well  as 
the  misery  of  his  wife,  behaved  well  and  calmly. 
After  a  time  he  spoke,  in  words  suited  to  the  sad  oc- 
casion, to  those  around,  and  said  that  the  remains 
should  be  treated  with  as  much  honor  as  if  they  were 
those  of  his  brother.  There  was  another  trial  of  his 
temper  :  the  wife  insisted  that  the  body  should  be  laid 
in  their  own  bed  —  it  was  the  same  in  which  she  had 
slept  with  her  first  husband ;  the  head  rested  on  the 
same  pillow.  It  was  night  vv'hen  it  was  placed  there, 
for  many  hours  had  now  passed.  He  came  and  stood 
beside  it  a  few  moments  in  silence,  but  showed  no 
emotion;  her  hands  had  strewed  flowers  around  it, 
and  placed  lights  at  the  head  and  feet;  but  nothing 
could  ever  induce  him  to  sleep  in  that  bed  again. 

On  the  third  day  after  this,  Nicholas  was  borne  to 
the  grave,  followed  by  his  wife  and  child,  and  a  gieat 
concourse  of  people.  Andrews  also  followed,  but  not 
as  a  mourner.  The  deceased  was  buried  in  the  parish 
churchyard  that  stood  solitary  on  the  summit  of  a  hill 
at  no  great  distance :  the  great  tower  could  be  seen 
far  off  at  sea,  and  often  served  the  mariners  as  a  land- 
inark.  Three  years  after  this,  Andrews  died  also, 
and  was  buried  in  the  same  spot,  but  not  in  the  same 
grave.  The  widow  was  again  left  desolate.  This 
desolation  was,  however,  less  bitter  than  the  first': 
she  no  more  gave  way  to  useless  repinings  ;  the  dwell- 
ing on  the  hill  side  that  overlooked  the  mine  was  no 
longer  that  of  despair ;  the  garden  was  kept  carefully 
neat,  for  j^ificholas  had  loved  it,  and  trimmed  it  every 
day  with  his  own  hand,  when  he  ascended  from  the 
depths  of  the  mine,  and  his  daily  toil  was  over.  The 
care  of  her  child  was  a  sweet  and  endless  office ;  and 
now  she  could  tell  of  her  father  ;  of  his  strange  end 


16  THE  DEAD   AND   THE  LIVING   HUSBANn. 

and  Stranger  restoration  ;  how  fond,  how  kind  a  man 
iie  had  been  ;  how  suddenly  he  was  taken  away ;  and 
how  God  had  restored  him,  but  for  a  few  moments  only, 
to  comfort  her  ;  and  she  wept  bitterly  on  the  neck  of 
his  first-born,  and  the  child  wept  also.  The  stern  eye 
of  the  second  husband  was  no  more  upon  them;  he 
slept  in  peace  ;  and  to  his  grave  the  widow  sometimes 
repaired  —  to  the  burial-ground  on  the  hill  —  at  even- 
ing, but  not  to  his  grave —  at  least  the  neighbors  said 
so.  There  was  another  beside  it,  planted  with  flowers, 
and  a  handsome  tablet  over  it.  The  children  of  the 
hamlet,  who  sometimes  played  wildly  in  the  cemetery, 
and  chased  each  other  over  the  fresh  as  well  as  the 
neglected  graves,  never  dired  to  tread  on  his  ;  they 
remembered  his  strange  finding,  and  they  looked  on 
it  with  awe.  She  knelt  there,  and  the  child  knelt 
beside  her ;  her  little  hands  were  taught  to  pluck 
every  stray  weed  away  ;  and  she  gazed  in  silence  and 
love  on  her  mother,  as  she  prayed,  with  clasped  hands 
and  tears  fast  falling.  The  prayer  was  too  deep  and 
heartfelt  for  words;  but  the  moving  of  the  lip,  the 
heaving  of  the  breast,  the  eager,  agonizing  expression 
of  the  eye,  appeared  as  if  a  strange  and  wild  hope 
mingled  with  her  petition  to  Heaven.  To  the  stran- 
ger's eye  she  seemed  to  say,  "  Is  corruption  yet  on 
Ihee,  my  husband  ?  Wilt  thou  again  burst  the  cere- 
ments of  the  grave  ?  Ten  years  he  lay  undecayed !  — 
Surely,  surely,  the  worm  is  not  on  thee ! " 

She  had  many  offers,  even  after  this,  to  marry 
again.  She  was  not  yet  more  than  thirty,  and  sorrow 
had  not  quite  wasted  her  comeliness;  but  she  never 
would  listen  to  them,  and  continued  to  reside  in  the 
lonely  dwelling  on  the  hill  side,  looked  upon  by  all  as 
a  woman  with  whom  Heaven  had  dealt  strangely,  yet 
mercifully.  The  rude  fishermen,  who  plied  their 
trade  near  the  noble  cliffs  ju-t  beyond,  would  oflea 


THE    PEASANT    GIRT.'^S    LOVE.  17 

bring  to  her  door  their  choicest  fish,  ere  they  travelled 
inland  to  seek  a  market.  The  miners,  whenever  she 
passed  by  the  scene  of  their  toils,  paid  her  marked  re- 
spect, and  looked  curiously  on  the  only  child,  who,  as 
years  passed  away,  grew  to  a  beautiful  yet  delicate 
girl  :  the  women  of  the  hamlet  said  how  like  she  was 
to  her  father,  yet  that  no  good  would  come  to  her, ' 
born  in  such  a  way,  and  under  so  dark  a  doom. 


THE    PEASANT    GIRL'S    LOVE. 

The  county  assizes  had  commenced  in  my  native 
town,  when  a  new  batch  of  Irish  tithe  arrangers  were 
brought  in  prisoners  by  a  strong  party  of  police. 
They  had  attacked,  the  previous  evening,  a  gentle- 
man's house,  for  the  purpose  of  rifling  it  of  arms ; 
had  been  repulsed  by  the  police,  who,  aware  of  their 
intentions,  lay  in  ambush  for  them;  and  lives  were 
lost  on  both  sides.  I  was  idling  on  one  of  the  bridges, 
when  they  passed  by  the  jail,  bound  with  ropes  and 
buckles  to  the  common  cars  of  the  country.  Some 
of  them  were  wounded,  too  —  the  brow,  or  hand,  or 
clothing,  giving  vivid  evidence  of  the  fact. 

But,  although  the  general  impression  made  by  the 
whole  of  the  wretched  group  was  painful,  one  face 
among  them  strongly  interested  me.  It  was  that  of  a 
young  man,  not  more  than  nineteen  or  twenty  ;  his 
features  were  comely,  and,  I  would  have  it,  full  of 
^goodness  and  gentleness.  His  clear  blue  eye,  too, 
%vas  neither  sulky,  nor  savage,  nor  reckless ;  but 
seemed  to  express  great  awe  of  his  situation,  unless 
U'hen    from  sudden   mental  recurrence  to  home,  it 


18  THE  PEASANT  GIRL's  LOVE. 

quailed  or  became  sufFased  with  tears.  I  involun- 
tarily followed  the  melancholy  procession  towards  the 
jail,  thinking  of  that  young  man.  After  all  the  pris- 
oners had  been  ushered  into  their  new  abode,  a  pop* 
ular  anti-tithe  attorney,  whom  I  knew,  accosted  me. 
He  was  always  ready  to  conduct,  gratis,  the  defences 
of  poor  wretches  thus  situated  •  and  he  told  me  his 
intention  of  going  into  the  jail,  that  ipoment,  to  try 
and  collect  materials  for  saving  the  lives  of  some,  at 
least,  of  the  new  comers.  I  expressed  a  wish  to 
assist  him  in  his  task ;  he  readily  consented,  observ- 
ing that,  as  the  unfortunate  men  would  certainly  be 
put  on  their  trials  the  next  day,  no  offer  of  aid,  in 
their  favor,  was  to  be  disregarded:  so  we  entered  the 
jail  together. 

It  fell  to  my  lot  to  visit  the  cell,  among  others,  of 
the  young  man  who  had  so  much  interested  me.  His 
assertions,  supported,  or,  at  any  rate,  not  contradicted, 
by  most  of  his  band,  seemed  to  argue  that  I  had  not 
formed  a  wrong  opinion  of  his  character — -nay,  better* 
still,  that  there  was  a  good  chance  of  snatching  him 
from  the  gallows,  even  though  he  must  leave  his  na- 
tive land  forever.  He  had  been  forced,  he  said,  to 
accompany  the  others  upon  their  fatal  sortie  —  had 
never  been  "out"  before  —  and  had  not  pulled  a  trig- 
ger or  raised  a  hand  against  the  police:  his  more 
guilty  associates  supported,  or  else  did  not  contravene, 
his  statement.  So,  confident  that  the  police  would 
also  bear  him  out  at  the  really  critical  moment,  I  took 
notes  of  his  defence  for  my  friend  the  attorney,  and 
passed  on  to  the  other  cells ;  but  of  the  resilts  of  my 
investigation  I  will  not  now  speak. 

The  sagacious  attorney  was  right.  By  twelve 
o'clock  next  day,  four  of  the  men,  including  my  fa- 
vorite client,  were  placed  at  the  bar  of  their  country: 
three  others  v/ere  too  ill  of  their  wounds  to  be  at 


THE    PEASANT    GIRL's    LOVE.  IS* 

present  produced.  All  was  soon  over  —  and  over  to. 
my  affliction,  and  almost  consternation.  Instead  of 
swearing  that  the  young  man  had  been  comparatively 
forbearing  during  the  battle  outside  the  gentleman's 
house,  the  police,  one  and  all,  from  strange  mistake  — 
for  surely  they  thought  they  were  in  the  right — dis- 
tinctly deposed  that  his  was  the  hand  which  slew  one 
of  their  force,  and  badly  wounded  another.  In  vain 
did  he  protest,  with  the  energy  of  a  young  man  plead- 
ing for  life  and  all  its  array  of  happy  promise,  against 
their  evidence  ;  in  vain  did  his  fellow-prisoners  sup^- 
port  him ;  he  and  they  were  found  guilty  in  common. 
Eut  his  fate  was  the  terrific  one  —  of  him  the  exam- 
ple was  to  be  made  ;  and  while  the  other  men  were 
only  sentenced  to  transportation  for  life,  he  was 
doomed  to  be  hanged  by  the  neck  within  forty-eight 
hours,  and  his  body  given  for  dissection. 

As  the  judge  ushered  in  the  last  words  of  his  seur 
•tence,  a  shriek — (I  shall  never  forget  it)  —  a  wo- 
man's shriek  —  and  a  young  woman's  too — pierced 
up  the  roof  of  the  silent  court-house,  and  then  I 
heard  a  heavy  fall  I  The  young  culprit  had  been 
trembling  and  swaying  from  side  to  side,  during  the 
sentence  :  at  the  soul-thrilling  sound,  he  started  into- 
upright  and  perfect  energy  ;  his  hands,  which  had 
grasped  the  bar  of  the  dock,  were  clapped,  together 
with  a  loud  noise;  the  blood  mounted  to  his  very 
forehead;  his  lips  parted  widely,  and,  having  shouted, 
*'  Moya !  it's  she  !  I  knew  she  would  be  here  !  "  —  he 
suddenly  made  a  spring  to  clear  the  back  of  the  dock. 
Obviously  no  desire  to  escape  dictated  the  action  :  he 
wanted  to  raise  Moya  —  his  betrothed  Moya  —  from 
the  floor  of  the  court-house,  and  clasp  her  in  his  , 
arms —  and  that  was  all.  And,  doubtless,  in  his  vig- 
orous and  thrice-nerved  strength,  he  would  have  suc- 
ceeded in  his  wild  attempt,  but  that  the  sleeve  of  one: 


20  THE   PEASANT      GIRL's   LOVE. 

arm  and  one  of  his  hands  got  impaled  on  the  sharp 
iron  spikes  which  surmounted  the  formidable  barrier 
before  him.  Thus  cruelly  impeded,  however,  he  was 
easily  secured,  and  instantly  led  down,  through  a  trap 
door  in  the  bottom  of  the  dock,  to  his  "  condemned 
cell,"  continuing,  till  his  voice  was  lost  in  the  depths 
beneath  us,  to  call  out,  "  Moya,  cuishlamachree, 
Moya!" 

I  hastened,  v/ith  many  others,  into  the  body  of  the 
court,  and  there  learned,  from  her,  from  her  father 
and  mother,  and  other  friends,  the  connection  be- 
tween her  and  the  sentenced  lad.  They  were  to  have 
been  married  at  Easter,  This  did  not  lessen  my  in- 
terest in  him.  My  attorney  joined  me,  and  we  spoke 
of  all  possible  efforts  to  obtain  a  commutation  of 
his  sentence,  after  Moya's  parents  had  forced  her  out 
of  the  court-house,  on  the  way  to  their  home,  reject- 
ing all  her  entreaties  to  be  led  into  the  jail,  and  — 
married. 

We  thought  of  hearing  what  the  wounded  police 
man  might  say.  But  he  was  fourteen  miles  distant, 
v/here  the  affray  had  occurred ;  and  even  though  his 
evidence  might  be  favorable,  we  knew  we  must  be 
prepared  to  forward  it  to  Dublin,  as  the  judge  would 
leave  our  tcwn  that  day.  We  set  to  work,  however, 
mounted  two  good  horses,  and  within  three  hours 
learned  from  the  lips  of  the  wounded  man  that  the 
Hockite  who  had  fired  at  him  was  an  elderly  and  ill- 
favored  fellow.  It  was  our  next  business  to  convey 
our  new  evidence  into  town :  we  did  so,  in  a  carriage 
borrowed  from  the  person  whose  house  had  been  at- 
tacked. He  was  confronted  Vv'ith  all  the  prisoners. 
We  cautioned  him  t3  say  nothing  that  might  give  a 
false  hope  to  the  object  of  our  interest ;  but,  after 
leaving  the  cell,  he  persisted  in  exculpating  him  from 
having  either  killed  his  comrade  or  wounded  himself. 


THE   PEASANT   GIRL's   tOVE.  21 

and,  moreover,  pointed  out  the  real  culprit  among 
those  who  had  not  yet  been  put  on  their  trial. 

This  was  a  good  beginning.  An  affidavit  was  soon 
prepared,  which  the  policeman  signed.  A  few  min- 
utes afterwards  the  attorney  started  for  Dublin,  as 
fast  as  four  horses  could  gallop.  Ten  hours,  out  of 
the  forty-eight  allowed  to  the  condemned  to  prepare 
for  death,  had  already  elapsed.  Our  good  attorney 
must  now  do  the  best  he  could  within  thirty-seven 
hours  —  it  was  fearful  not  to  leave  an  hour  to  spare 
—  to  calculate  time  when  it  would  just  be  merging 
into  eternity.  But  we  had  good  hopes.  If  horses 
did  not  fail  on  the  road,  going  nor  returning,  and  if 
the  judge,  and,  after  him,  the  lord  lieutenant,  could 
be  rapidly  approached,  it  was  a  thing  to  be  done. 
That  if,  however!  —  I  scarce  slept  a  wink  through 
the  night.  Next  morning  early,  I  called  on  the 
clergyman  whose  sad  duty  it  was  to  visit  the  poor  lad 
in  his  condemned  cell :  he  and  I  had  been  school-fel- 
lows, and  he  was  a  young  man  of  most  amiable  char- 
acter. He  told  me  "  his  poor  penitent "  was  not  unfit 
to  die,  nor  did  he  dread  the  fate  before  him,  notwith- 
standing his  utter  anguish  of  heart  at  so  sudden  and 
terrible  a  parting  from  his  young  mistress.  I  com- 
municated the  hopes  we  had,  and  asked  the  clergy- 
man's opinion  as  to  the  propriety  of  alleviating  the 
lad's  agony  by  a  slight  impartation  of  them.  My  rev- 
erend young  friend  would  not  hear  of  such  a  thing : 
his  conscience  did  not  permit  him.  It  was  his  duty, 
he  said,  his  sacred  duty,  to  allow  nothing  to  distract 
the  mind  and  heart  of  his  penitent  from  resignation 
to  his  lot;  and  should  he  give  him  a  hope  of  life,  and 
then  see  that  hope  dashed,  he  would  have  helped  to 
kill  a  human  soul,  not  to  save  one.  I  gave  up  the 
point,  and  endeavored  to  seek  occupations  and  amuse- 
ments to  turn  my  thoughts  from  the  one  subject  which 


'^'i  THE   PEASANT      GIRL  S   LOVE. 

absorbed  and  fevered  them.     But  in  vain ;  and  when 
night  came,  I  had  less  sleep  than  on  the  first. 

Early  on  the  second  morning,  I  took  a  walk  into 
the  country,  along  the  Dublin  road,  vaguely  hoping 
to  meet,  even  so  early,  our  zealous  attorney  returning 
to  us,  with  a  white  handkerchief  streaming  from  the 
window  of  his  post  chaise  :  that  idea  had  got  into  my 
head,  like  a  picture,  and  would  recur  every  moment. 
I  met  him  not.  I  lingered  on  the  road.  I  heard  our 
town  clock  pealing  twelve  —  the  boy  had  but  an  hour 
to  live :  I  looked  towards  the  county  jail,  whither  he 
had  been  removed  for  execution  —  the  black  flag  was 
waving  over  its  drop-door.  Glancing  once  more  along 
the  Dublin  road,  I  ran  as  fast  as  I  could  towards  the 
jail.  Arrived  at  the  iron  gate  of  its  outer  yard,  I  was 
scarce  conscious  of  the  multitude  who  sat  on  a  height 
confronting  it,  —  all  was  hushed  and  silent,  —  or  of  the 
very  strong  guard  of  soldiers  at  the  gate,  till  one  of 
them  refused  me  way.  I  bribed  the  sergeant  to  con- 
vey my  name  to  the  governor  of  the  prison,  and  was 
admitted,  first  into  the  outer-yard,  then  by  the  guard- 
room door,  and  along  a  colonnade  of  pillars,  connected 
with  iron  work  at  either  hand,  into  the  inner  courts 
of  the  jail.  The  guard-room  was  under  the  execu- 
tion-room, and  both  formed  a  building  in  themselves, 
separated  from  the  main  pile;  the  colonnade,  of  which 
I  have  spoken,  leading  from  one  to  the  other.  What 
had  sent  me  where  I  now  found  myself,  was  an  im- 
pulse to  beseech  the  sheriff  (whom  I  knew,  and  who 
was  necessarily  in  the  jail  to  accompany  the  con- 
demned to  the  door  of  the  execution-room)  for  some 
short  postponement  of  the  fatal  moment.  He  came 
out  to  me,  in  one  of  the  courts  at  either  side  of  the 
colonnade ;  we  spoke  in  whispers,  as  the  good  and 
kind-hearted  governor  had  done  —  though  there  was 
not  a  creature  to  overhear  us,  in  the  deserted  and 


THE    PEASANT    GIRL's   LOVE.  23 

sunny  spaces  all  around.  I  knew  the  sheriff  would 
at  his  peril  make  any  change  in  the  hour  ;  but  I  told 
him  our  case,  and  his  eyes  brightened  with  zeal  and 
benevolence,  while  he  put  back  his  watch  three 
quarters  of  an  hour,  and  asseverated,  with  my  uncle 
Toby's  oath,  I  believe,  that  he  would  swear  it  was 
right,  and  that  all  their  clocks  were  wrong,  and,  "let 
them  hang  himself  for  his  mistake." 

Our  point  arranged,  we  sunk  into  silence.  It  was 
impossible  to  go  on  talking,  even  in  our  conscious 
whispers.  One  o'clock  soon  struck  !  The  governor, 
pale  and  agitated,  appeared  making  a  sad  signal  to 
the  sheriff.  We  beckoned  him  over  to  us,  and  he 
was  shown  the  infallible  watch,  and  retired  again 
without  a  word.  My  friend  and  I  continued  standing 
side  by  side  in  resumed  silence.  And  all  was  silence 
around  us  too,  save  some  few  most  melancholy,  most 
appalling  sounds;  one  caused  by  the  step  of  a  senti- 
nel under  the  window  of  the  condemned  cell,  at  an 
unseen  side  of  the  prison;  another  by  the  audible 
murmurings  of  the  condemned  and  his  priest,  heard 
through  that  window  —  both  growing  more  fervent  in 
prayer  since  the  jail  clock  had  pealed  one  ;  and  a 
third  was  made  by  some  person,  also  unseen,  striking 
a  single  stroke  with  a  wooden  mallet,  about  every 
half  minute,  upon  a  muffled  bell,  at  the  top  of  the 
prison.  Yes  —  I  can  recall  two  other  sounds  which 
irritated  me  greatly ;  the  chirping  of  sparrows  in  the 
sun,  —  and  I  thought  their  usual  pert  note  was  now 
strangely  sad, —  and  the  tick,  tick,  of  the  sheriff's 
watch,  which  I  heard  distinctly  in  his  fob.  The 
minutes  flew.  I  felt  pained  in  the  throat  —  burning 
with  thirst  —  and  losing  my  presence  of  mind.  The 
governor  appeared  again.  My  friend  entered  the 
prison  with  him.  I  remained  also  confused  and  ag- 
onized.    In  a  few  minutes,  the  governor  came  out. 


24  THE  PEASANT  GIRL^S  LOVE. 

bareheaded,  and  tears  on  his  cheeks.  The  clergymso 
and  his  penitent  followed  ;  the  former  had  passed  ai2> 
arm  through  one  of  the  manacled  ones  of  the  latter^, 
and  the  hands  of  both  were  clasped,  and  both  were 
praying  audibly.  — -  My  old  school-fellow  wept  like  a 
child.  My  poor  client  had  passed  the  threshold  into* 
the  colonnade,  with  a  firm  step,  his  knees  kept  pecu- 
liarly stiff,  as  he  paced  along,  and  his  cheeks  and  fore-' 
head  were  scarlet,  while  his  eye  widened  and  beamedy. 
and  was  fixed  on  the  steps  going  up  to  the  execution- 
room  straight  on  before  him.  He  did  not  yet  see  me 
gazing  at  him.  As  the  sheriff  appeared  behind,  and. 
his  priest,  also  bareheaded,  I  rapidly  snatched  my  hat 
from  my  head.  The  action  attracted  bis  attention — - 
our  glances  met  — and  O!  how  the  Hush  instantly 
forsook  his  forehead  and  his  cheek  — and  how  his- 
eyes  closed  —  while  cold  perspiration  burst  out  oo; 
his  brow,  and  he  started,  stopped,  and  faltered  F  Did 
he  recognize  me  as  the  person  who  had  spoken  kindly 
to  him  in  his  cell,  before  his  trial,  and  perhaps,  with 
all  my  precaution,  given  him  a  vague  hope  ?  or  was 
it  that  the  unexpected  appearance  of  a  human  crea*- 
ture,  staring  at  him  in  utter  commiseration,  in  that 
otherwise  lonely  courtyard,  had  touched  the  chord  of 
human  associations,  and  called  him  back  to  earthy 
out  of  his  enthusiastic  vision  of  heaven  ?  I  knew 
jiot;  I  cannot  even  guess;  loho  can?  As  he  faltered, 
the  young  priest  passed  his  arm  round  his  body,  and 
gently  urged  him  to  his  knees,  and  knelt  with  him, 
kissing  his  cheeks,  his  lips  pressing  his  hands,  and  in 
tender  whispers  manning  him  again  for  facing  shame, 
and  death,  and  eternity.  The  governor,  the  sheriff, 
and  I,  instinctively  assumed  the  attitude  of  prayer  at 
the  same  moment,  Moya's  "  own  boy  "  never  even 
mounted  the  steps  of  the  execution-room.  We  were 
first,  startldd,  while  we  all  knelt,   as  it  afterwards 


THE   TWO   KATES.  25 

proved — by  her  shrieks  at  the  outer  gates  ;  she  had 
^escaped  from  the  restraints  of  her  family,  and  had 
come  to  the  jail,  insisting  on  being  married  to  him 
*'  with  the  rope  itself  round  his  neck,  to  live  a  widow 
for  him  forever ; "  and  next  there  was  a  glorious 
shout  from  the  multitude  on  tke  rural  heights  before 
the  prison,  and  my  one  ceaseless  idea  of  our  attorney, 
with  a  white  handkerchief  streaming  through  the 
■window  of  his  post  chaise,  was  realized,  though  every 
one  saw  it  but  I.  And  Moya,  self-transported  for 
iife,  went  to  Van  Diemen's  Land,  some  weeks  after- 
wards, a  happy  and  contented  wife,  her  family  having 
yielded  to  her  wishes  at  the  instance  of  more  advo- 
cates than  herself,  and  put  some  money  in  her  purse 
also. 


THE    TWO    KATES. 

"I  CANNOT  help  observing,  Mr.  Seymour,  that  I 
think  it  exceedingly  strange  in  you  to  interfere  with 
the  marriage  of  my  daughter  :  marry  your  sons,  sir,  as 
you  please  —  but  my  daughter!  that  is  quite  another 
matter." 

And  Mrs.  Seymour,  a  stately,  sedate  matron,  of  the 
high-heei  and  hoop  school,  drew  herself  up  to  her  full 
height,  which  (without  the  heels)  was  five  foot  seven, 
and  fanning  herself  with  a  huge  green  fan,  more 
rapidly  than  she  had  done  for  many  months,  looked 
askance  upon  her  husband,  a  pale,  delicate  man,  who 
seemed  in  the  last  stage  of  a  consumption. 

"  A  little  time,  Mary  !  "  (good  lack  !  could  such  a 
person  as  Mrs.  Seymour  bear  so  sweet  a  name  ? )  *'  a 


26  THE  TWO   KATES. 

little  time,  Mary,  and  our  sons  may  marry  as  they 
list  for  me ;  but  I  have  yet  to  learn  why  you  should 
have  more  control  over  our  Kate  than  I.  —  Before  I 
quit  this  painful  world,  I  should  like  the  sweet  child 
to  be  placed  under  a  suitable  protector." 

"  You  may  well  call  her  child,  indeed  —  little  more 
than  sixteen.  Forcing  the  troubles  of  the  world  upon 
her  so  young  !  I  have  had  my  share  of  them,  Heaven 
knows,  although  I  had  nearly  arrived  at  the  age  of 
discretion  before  I  united  my  destiny  to  yours." 

"  So  you  had,  my  dear  —  you  were,  I  think,  close 
upon  forty ! " 

It  is  pretty  certain  that  a  woman  who  numbers 
thirty  without  entering  "  the  blessed  state,"  had  better 
deliberate  whether  she  is  able  to  take  up  new  ideas, 
forego  "  her  own  sweet  will,"  and  sink  from  an  inde- 
pendent to  a  dependent  being ;  but  a  woman  of  forty 
who  is  guilty  of  such  an  absurdity  merits  the  punish- 
ment she  is  sure  to  receive.  And  though  Mr.  Sey- 
mour was  a  kind,  amiable,  and  affectionate  man,  his 
lady  was  far  from  a  happy  woman ;  she  had  enjoyed 
more  of  her  own  way  than  generally  falls  to  the  lot  of 
her  sex,  and  yet  not  near  so  much  as  she  desired  or 
fancied  she  deserved.  If  Mr.  Seymour  would  have 
held  his  tongue,  and  done  exactly  as  she  wished,  it 
would  have  been  all  well ;  but  this  course  he  was  not 
exactly  prone  to  —  he  having  been,  at  least  ten  years 
before  his  marriage,  what  is  generally  termed  an  old 
bachelor.  Let  it  not  be  imagined  that  Mrs.  Seymour 
was  one  of  your  "shall  and  will"  ladies  —  no  such 
thing;  she  was  always  talking  of  "female  duties," 
of  "  genteel  obedience,"  of  "  amiable  docility,"  and 
with  her  eyes  fastened  upon  a  piece  of  tent-stitch 
which  she  had  worked  in  her  juvenile  days,  represent- 
ing Jacob  drinking  from  Rebecca's  pitcher,  she  would 
lecture  her  husband  by  the  long  winter  hours^,  and 


THE   TWO   KATES.  ^7 

the  midsummer  sunshine,  as  to  the  inestimable  treas- 
ure he  possessed  in  her  blessed  self> 

*'  Think,  Mr.  Seymour,  if  you  had  married  a  gad- 
about; lolw  would  have  watched  over  mij  children  ?  " 
(she  never  by  any  chance  said  our  children.)  "  I  have 
Jiever  been  outside  the  doors  (except  to  church)  these 
four  years  !  If  you  had  married  a  termagant,  how  she 
would  have  flown  at,  and  abused  all  your  little  —  did 
I  say  little  1  —  I  might  with  truth  say,  ^qwx  great  pecu- 
liarities. I  never  interfere,  never ;  1  only  notice  —  for 
your  own  good  —  that  habit,  for  instance,  of  always 
giving  Kate  sugar  with  her  strawberries,  and  placing 
the  toD.gs  to  the  left  instead  of  the  right  of  the  poker 
—  it  is  very  sad  !  " 

"  My  dear,"  Mr.  Seymour  would  interrupt,  "  what 
does  it  signify  whether  the  tongs  be  to  the  right  or 
left?" 

"Bless  me,  dear  sir!  you  need  not^fly  out  so;  I 
was  only  saying  that  there  are  some  women  in  the 
world  who  would  make  that  a  bone  of  contention ; 
I  never  do,  much  as  it  annoys  me  —  much  as  it  and 
other  things  grieve  and  Vv'orry  my  health  and  spirits  ; 
1  never  complain  —  never.  Some  men  are  strangely 
insensible  to  their  domestic  blessings,  and  do  not 
know  how  to  value  earth's  greatest  treasure  —  a  good 
wife !  but  I  am  dumb ;  I  am  content  to  suffer,  to  melt 
away  in  tears  —  it  is  no  matter."  Then,  after  a  pause 
to  recruit  her  breath  and  complainings,  she  would 
rush  upon  another  grievance  with  the  abominable 
whine  of  an  aggrieved  and  much  injured  person ;  a 
sort  of  mental  and  monotonous  wailing,  which,  though 
nobody  minded,  annoyed  every  body  within  her 
sphere.  Her  husband  was  fast  sinking  into  the  grave ; 
her  sons  had  gone  from  Eton  to  Cambridcre;  and, 
when  they  were  at  home,  took  good  care  to  be  con- 
tinually out  of  earshot  of  their  mother's  lamentations^; 


28  THE  TWO  KATEf. 

the  servants  changed  places  so  continually,  that  tli^ 
door  was  never  twice  opened  by  the  same  footman;' 
and  the  only  fixture  at  Seyniour  Hall,  where  servants 
and  centuries,  at  one  time,  might  be  almost  termed 
synonymous,  was  ttie  old^  deaf  housekeeper,  who, 
luckily  for  herself,  could  not  hear*  her  mistress's  voices 
To  whom,  then,  had  Mrs.  Seymour  to  look  forward,  as 
the  future  source  of  her  comforts —  i.  e,  of  her  tor-» 
rnenting?  even  her  daughter  Kate— -the  bonny  Kate, 
the  merry  Kate,  the  thing  of  smiles  and  tears,  who 
danced  under  the  shadow  of  the  old  trees ;  who  sang 
with  the  birds ;  who  learned  industry  from  the  bees, 
and  cheerfulness  from  the  grasshopper ;  whose  voice 
told,  in  its  rich,  full  melody,  of  young  Joy  and  his 
]"iUghing  train  ;  whose  step  was  as  liglit  on  the  turf  as 
the  dew  or  the  sunbeam  ;  whose  shadow  was  blessed 
as  it  passed  the  window  of  the  poor  and  lowly  cot- 
tager, heralding  the  coming  of  her  who  comforted 
her  own  soul  by  comforting  her  fellow-creatures. 
"  How  can  it  be  possible,"  said  every  body,  "  that  such 
a  lovely,  cheerful,  cheering  creature  can  be  the  child 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Seymour?  the  father,  dear  man, 
kind  and  gentle,  but  so  odd;  the  mother!'^  and  then 
followed  a  look  and  a  shrug,  that  told  of  much  disap- 
probation, and  yet  not  half  as  much  as  was  most  jjen- 
erously  bestowed  on  the  melancholy-dealing  Mrs. 
Seymour. 

Kate's  father  well  knew  that  his  days  were  num- 
bered ;  and  he  looked  forward  with  no  very  pleasura- 
ble feeling  to  his  daughter's  health  and  happiness  be- 
ing sacrificed  at  the  shrine  whereon  he  had  offered  up 
his  own.  Kate,  it  is  true,  as  yet  had  nothing  suffered  ; 
.she  managed  to  hear  and  laugh  at  her  mother's  re- 
})inings,  without  being  rendered  gloomy  iliereby,  or 
£:iving  offence  to  the  mournful  and  discontented  pa- 
rent.    She  v/ould,  in  her  ov/n  natural  and  unsophis- 


THE   TWO   KATEg.  29 

ticated  manner,  lead  her  forth  into  the  sunshine,  sing 
her  the  gayest  songs,  read  to  her  the  most  cheerful 
books,  and  gather  for  her  the  freshest  flowers;  and 
sometimes  even  Mrs.  Seymour  would  smile,  and  be 
amused,  though  her  heart  quickly  returned  to  its  bit- 
terness, and  her  soul  to  its  discontent ;  but  Mr.  Sey- 
mour knew  that  this  buoyant  spirit  could  not  endure 
forever,  and  he  sought  to  save  the  rose  of  his  exist- 
ence from  the  canker  that  had  destroyed  him.  She 
was  earnestly  beloved  by  a  brave  and  intelligent  offi- 
cer, who  had  ah-eady  distinguished  himself,  and  who 
hoped  to  win  fresh  laurels  wherever  his  country  need- 
ed his  exertions.  It  would  be  difficult  to  define  the 
sort  of  feeling  with  which  Kate  received  his  atten- 
tions; like  all  young,  very  young  girls,  she  thought 
that  affection  ought  to  be  kept  secret  from  the  world^ 
and  that  it  was  a  very  shocking  thing  to  fall  in  love; 
phe  consequently  vowed  and  declared  to  every  body^ 
that  "  she  had  no  idea  of  thinking  of  Major  Caven- 
dish: that  she  was  too  young,  much  too  young, 
to  marry;  that  her  mamma  said  so."  She  even 
steeped  her  little  tongue  so  deeply  in  love's  natural 
hypocrisy,  as  to  declare,  hut  only  once,  "  that  she  ha- 
ted Major  Cavendish."  If  he  addressed  her  in  com- 
pany, she  was  sure  to  turn  away,  blush,  and  chatter 
most  inveterately  to  her  cousin,  long  Jack  Seymour ; 
if  he  askied  her  to  sing,  she  had  invariably  a  sore 
throat ;  and  if  he  asked  her  to  dance,  she  had 
sprained  her  ankle ;  it  was  quite  marvellous  the  quan- 
tity of  little  fibs  she  invented^  whenever  Major  Caven- 
dish was  in  the  way;  and  it  is  probable  that  the 
calm,  dignified,  and  gentlemanly  soldier  would  never 
have  declared  his  preference  for  the  laughter-loviog 
and  provoking  Kate,  but  for  one  of  those  little  epi- 
sodes which  either  make  or  mar  the  happiness  of 
life. 


00 


Tlffi  TWO  KATES, 


I  must  observe  that  Kate's  extreme  want  of  resem- 
blance to  either  her  mournful  mother  or  her  pale  and 
gentle  father,  was  not  more  extraordinary  than  that 
Major  Cavendish,  as  we  have  said,  —  the  calm  and  dig- 
nified  Major  Cavendish,  —  at  six-and-twenty,  should 
evince  so  great  an  affection  for  the  animated  and  girl- 
ish creature,  whom,  four  years  before  his  "  declara- 
tion," he  had  lectured  to,  and  romped  with  ;  but  no, 
??o?  romped— -Major  Cavendish  was  too  dignified  to 
romp,  or  to  flirt  either;  what  shall  I  call  it  then? 
laughed  —  yes,  he  certainly  did  laugh  —  generally 
after  the  most  approved  English  fashion,  —  his  lips 
separated  with  a  manifest  desire  to  unite  again  as 
{30on  as  possible,  and  his  teeth,  v/hite  and  even,  ap- 
peared to  great  advantage  during  the  exertion.  No- 
body thought  that,  though  young  and  handsome,  he 
would  think  of  marriage,  "  he  was  so  grave;"  but 
on  the  same  principle,  1  suppose,  that  the  harsh  and 
terrible  thunder  is  the  companion  of  the  gay  and 
brilliant  lightning,  majestic  and  sober  husbands  often 
most  desire  to  have  gay  and  laughing  wives.  Now 
for  the  episode.  —  Mrs.  Seymour  had  fretted  herself 
to  sleep,  Mr.  Seymour  had  sunk  into  his  afternoon 
nap,  and  Kate  stole  into  her  ovm  particular  room,  to 
coax  something  like  melody  out  of  a  Spanish  guitar, 
the  last  gift  of  Major  Cavendish  :  the  room  told  of  a 
change,  effected  by  age  and  circumstances,  on  the 
character  of  its  playful  mistress.  A  very  large  Dutch 
baby-house,  that  had  contributed  much  to  her  amuse- 
ment a  little  time  ago,  still  maintained  its  station 
upon  its  usual  pedestal,  the  little  Dutch  ladies  and 
gentlemen  all  in  their  places,  as  if  they  had  not  been 
disturbed  for  som.e  months :  on  the  same  table  were 
battledores,  shuttlecocks,  and  skippino;-ropes ;  while 
the  table  at  the  other  end  was  covered  with  English 
and  Italian  books,  vases  of  fresh  flowers^  music,  and 


THE    TWO    KATES.  3l 

ls6me  richly  ornamented  boxes,  containing  many  im- 
plements that  ladies  use  both  for  wor'k  and  drawing; 
respectfully  apart  stood  a  reading  stand  supporting 
Kate's  Bible  and  prayer-books;  and  it  was  pleasant  to 
observe,  that  no  other  books  rested  upon  those  holy 
volumes. 

The   decorated  walls  would  not  have    suited   the 
present    age;   and   yet  they   were  covered  with  em- 
broidery, and  engravings,  and  mirrors,   and  carvings 
—  showing  a  taste  not  developed,  yet  existing  in  the 
beautiful  girl,  whose  whole  powers  were  devoted  to 
the  conquest  of  some  music  which  she  was  practising 
both  with  skill  and  patience.     There  she  sat    on    a 
low  ottoman,  her  profile  thrown  into  full  relief  by  the 
back  ground ;  being  a  curtain  of  heavy  crimson  vel- 
vet, that  fell  in  well-defined  folds  from  a  golden  arrow 
in  the  centre  of  the  architrave,  —  while  summer  dra- 
pery of  white  muslin  shaded  the  other  side  —  her  fea- 
tures hardly  defined,  yet  exhibiting  the    tracery    of 
beauty,  —  her  lips,  rich,  full,  and  separated,  as  ever 
and  anon  they  gave  forth  a  low,  melodious    accom- 
paniment to  her  thrilling    chords*      There    she  sat, 
practising  like  a  very  good  girl,  —  perfectly  uncon- 
scious that  Major  Cavendish  was    standing   outside 
the   window    listening    to    his    favorite    airs   played 
over    and    over    again;    and  he  would  haVe  listened 
much  longer  —  but  suddenly  she  paused,  and,  look- 
ing carefully  round,  drew  from  her  bosom   a  small 
case,  containing  a  little  group  of  flowers  painted  on 
ivory,  which  he  had  given  her,  and  which,  poor  fel- 
low!  he  imagined  she   cared   not    for,  —  because,  I 
suppose,  she  did  not  exhibit  it  in  public!    How  little 
does  mighty  and  magnificent  man  know  of  the  work- 
ings of  a  young  girl's  heart!  —  Well,  she  looked  at 
the  flowers,  and  a  smile  bright  and  beautiful  spread 
over  her  face,  and  a  blush  rose  to  her  cheek,  and 


32 


THE   TWO   KATES. 


suffused  her  brow,  —  and  then  it  paled  away,  and  hef 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  What  were  her  heart's  imagin- 
ings Cavendish  could  not  say  ;  but  they  had  called 
forth  a  blush, —  a  smile,  —  a  tear, — love's  sweetest 
tokens,  and,  forgetting  his  concealment,  he  was  seat- 
ed by  her  side,  just  as  she  thrust  the  little  case 
under  the  cushion  of  her  ottoman !  —  How  prettily 
that  blush  returned,  when  Cavendish  asked  her  to 
sing  one  of  his  favorite  ballads,  —  the  modest,  half- 
coquettish,  half-natural  air,  with  which  she  said,  "I 
cannot  sing,  sir,  —  I  am  so  very  hoarse."  "Indeed 
Kate !  you  were  not  hoarse  just  now."  "  How  do 
you  know?  " 

"  I  have  been  outside  the  window  for  more  than 
half  an  hour. " 

The  blush  deepened  into  crimson,  —  bright  glow- 
ing crimson,  —  and  her  eye  unconsciously  rested  on 
the  spot  where  her  treasure  was  concealed.  He 
placed  his  hand  on  the  cushion,  and  smiled  most  pro- 
vokingly,  saying,  as  plainly  as  gesture  could  say,  — 
*' Fair  mistress  Kate,  I  know  all  about  it;  you  need 
not  look  so  proud,  so  shy, — you  cannot  play  the 
impostor  any  longer!"  But  poor  Kate  burst  into 
tears,  —  she  sobbed,  and  sobbed  heavily  and  heartily 
too,  when  her  lover  removed  the  case,  recounted  the 
songs  she  had  sung,  and  the  feeling  with  which  she 
had  sung  them ;  and  she  did  try  ver?/  hard  to  get  up 
a  story,  about  "  accident  "  and  "  wanting  to  copy  the 
flowers,"  —  with  a  heap  more  of  little  things  that 
were  perfectly  untrue;  and  Cavendish  knew  it,  for 
his  eyes  were  now  opened ;  and  after  more,  far  more 
than  the  usual  repetition  of  sighs,  and  smiles,  and  prot- 
estations, and  illustrations,  little  Kate  did  say,  or  per- 
haps (for  there  is  ever  great  uncertainty  in  these 
matters)  Cavendish  said,  "that  if  papa,  or  mamma, 
had  no  objection  —  she  believed,  —  she   thought,  — 


THE    TWO   KATES.  33 

she  even  hoped  !  "  and  so  the  matter  terminated;  — 
and  that  very  evening  she  sang  to  her  lover  his  fa- 
vorite songs;  and  her  father  that  night  blessed  her 
with  so  deep,  so  heartfelt  a  blessing,  that  little  Kate 
Seymour  sav/  the  moon  to  bed  before  her  eye 
v»'ere  dry. 

How  heavily  upon  some  do  the  shadows  of  life 
rest !  Those  who  are  born  and  sheltered  on  the  sun- 
ny side  of  the  walk  know  nothing  of  them;  they  live 
on  sunshine!  they  wake  i'  the  sunshine  —  nay,  they 
even  sleep  in  sunshine. 

Poor  Mr.  Seymour,  having  gained  his  great  object, 
married,  in  open  defiance  of  his  wife's  judgment,  his 
pretty  Kate  to  her  devoted  Cavendish ;  laid  his  head 
upon  his  pillow  one  night  about  a  month  after,  with 
the  sound  of  his  lady's  complaining  voice  ringing  its 
changes  from  bad  to  worse  in  his  aching  ears,  —  and 
awoke,  before  that  night  was  passed,  in  another  world. 
Mrs.  Seymour  had  never  professed  the  least  possible 
degree  of  affection  for  her  husband  ;  —  she  had  never 
seemed  to  do  so,  —  never  affected  it  until  then.  But 
the  truth  was,  she  had  started  a  fresh  subject;  —  her 
husband's  loss,  her  husband's  virtues,  nay,  her  hus- 
band's faults,  were  all  new  themes ;  and  she  was 
positively  charmed,  in  her  own  way,  at  having  a 
fresh  cargo  of  misfortunes  freighted  for  her  own  es- 
pecial use :  she  became  animated  and  eloquent  un- 
der her  troubles;  and  mingled  with  her  regrets  for 
her  "poor  dear  departed,"  were  innumerable  wail- 
ings  for  her  daughter's  absence, 

Kate  Cavendish  had  accompanied  her  husband, 
during  the  short,  deceitful  peace  of  Amiens,  to  Paris; 
and  there  the  beautiful  Mrs.  Cavendish  was  distin- 
guished as  a  wonder  "si  aimable,"  —  "si  gentille," 
—  "sinaive,'^  —  "  si  mignone  :  "  —  the  most  accom- 
plished of  the  French  court  could  not  be  like  her, 
3 


34 


THE   TWO   KATES. 


for  they  had  forgotten  to  be  natural ;  and  the  novekf 
and  diffidence  of  the  beautiful  English  woman  ren- 
dered her  an  object  of  universal  interest.  Petted  and 
feted  she  certainly  was,  but  not  spoiled.  She  was  not 
insensible  to  admiration,  and  yet  it  was  evident  to  all 
'he  preferred  the  affectionate  attention  of  her  hus- 
Dand  to  the  homage  of  the  whole  world;  nor  was  she 
ever  happy  but  by  his  side.  Suddenly  the  loud  war- 
whoop  echoed  throughout  Europe,  —  the  First  Con- 
sul was  too  ambitious  a  man  to  remain  at  peace  with 
England,  —  and  Major  Cavendish  had  only  time  to 
convey  his  beloved  v^ife  to  her  native  country,  when 
he  was  called  upon  to  join  his  regiment.  Kate  Cav- 
endish was  no  heroine ;  she  loved  her  husband  with 
so  entire  an  affection,  a  love  of  so  yielding,  so  re^ 
lying  a  kind  —  she  leaned  her  life,  her  hopes,  her 
very  soul  upon  him,  with  so  perfect  a  confidence, 
that  to  part  from  him  was  almost  a  moral  death. 

"  How  shall  I  think?  how  speak?  how  act,  when 
you  are  not  with  me?"  she  said;  "  how  support  my- 
self? who  will  instruct  me  now,  in  all  that  is  great, 
and  good,  and  noble?  who  will  smile  when  I  am 
right,  who  reprove  me  when  I  err,  and  yet  reprove  sa 
gentle  that  I  v/ould  rather  hear  him  chide  than  others 
praise  !  "  It  v/as  in  vain  to  talk  to  her  of  glory,  honor, 
or  distinction  —  was  not  her  husband  in  her  eyes 
sufficiently  glorious,  honorable,  and  distinguished ;. 
whom  did  she  ever  see  like  him?  she  loved  hini! 
with  all  the  rich,  ripe  fondness  of  a  young  and  affec- 
tionate heart;  and  truly  did  she  think  that  heart 
would  break,  when  he  departed.  Youth  little  knows 
what  hearts  can  endure ;  they  little  think  what  they 
must  of  necessity  go  through  in  this  work-a-day 
world;  they  are  ill  prepared  for  the  trials  and  tur- 
moils that  await  the  golden  as  well  as  the  humbler 
pageant  of  existence.     After-life  tells   us  how    wise 


THE    TWO    KATES.  35 

it  is  that  we  have  no  prospect  into  futurity.  Kate 
Cavendish  returned  to  her  mother's  house,  without 
the  knowledge  of  the  total  change  that  had  come 
over  her  thoughts  and  feelings :  her  heart's  youth 
had  passed  away,  though  she  was  still  almost  a  child 
in  years;  and  her  mother  had  a  new  cause  for  lamen- 
tation. Kate  was  so  dull  and  silent,  so  changed  ; 
the  greenhouse  might  go  to  wreck  and  ruin  for 
aught  she  cared.  And  she  sat  a  greater  number  of 
hours  on  her  father's  grave  than  she  spent  in  her 
poor  mother's  chamber.  This  lament  was  not  with- 
out foundation ;  the  beautiful  Kate  Cavendish  had 
fallen  into  a  morbid  and  careless  melancholy  that 
pervaded  all  her  actions;  her  very  thoughts  seemed 
steeped  in  sorrow;  and  it  was  happy  for  her  that  a 
new  excitement  for  exertion  occurred,  when,  about 
five  months  after  her  husband's  departure,  she  be- 
came a  mother.  Despite  Mrs.  Seymour's  prognosti- 
cations, the  baby  lived  and  prospered,  and  by  its 
papa's  express  command  was  called  Kate — an  ar- 
rangement which  very  much  tended  to  the  increase 
of  its  grandmamma's  discontent;  "It  was  such  a 
singular  mark  of  disrespect  to  her  not  to  call  it 
Mary." 

How  full  of  the  true  and  beautiful  manifestations 
of  maternal  affection  were  the  letters  of  Mrs.  Caven- 
dish to  her  husband  I  "little  Kate  was  so  very  like 
him — her  lip,  her  eye,  her  smile;"  and  then,  as 
years  passed  on,  and  Major  Cavendish  had  gained  a 
regiment  by  his  bravery,  the  young  mother  chroni- 
cled her  child's  wisdom,  her  wit,  her  voice,  the  very 
tone  of  her  voice  was  so  like  her  father's !  her  early 
love  of  study  —  and,  during  the  night  watches,  in 
the  interval  of  his  long  and  harassing  marches,  and 
his  still  more  desperate  engagements.  Colonel  Caven- 
dish found  happiness  and  consolation  in  the  perusXil 


36 


THE   TWO   KATES. 


of  the  outpourings  of  his  own  Kate's  heart  and  soui. 
In  due  time,  his  second  Kate  could  and  did  write 
those  misshapen  characters  of  affection^  pot-hooks 
and  hangers,  wherein  parents,  but  only  parents,  see 
the  promise  of  perfection  :  then  came  the  fair  round 
hand,  so  en  hon-pointy  with  its  hair  and  broad  strokes; 
then  an  epistle  in  French ;  and  at  last  a  letter  in  very 
neat  text,  bearing  the  stamp  of  authenticity  in  its  dic- 
tion, and  realizing  the  hopes  so  raised  by  his  wife's 
declaration,  that  "  their  Kate  was  all  heart  couM  de- 
sire, so  like  him  in  all  thmgs.'"  The  life  of  Cotonei 
Cavendish  conthmed  for  some  years  at  full  gallop ; 
days  and  hours  are  composed  of  the  same  number  of 
seconds,  whether  passed  in  the  solitude  of  a  cottage 
or  the  excitement  of  a  camp ;  yet  how  differently  are 
they  numbered !  how  very,  very  different  is  the  retro- 
spect ! 

Had  Colonel  Cavendish  seen  his  wife,  still  in  her 
early  beauty,  with  their  daughter  half  sitting,  half 
kneeling  by  her  side,  the  one  looking  younger,  the 
other  older  than  each  really  was,  he  would  not  have 
believed  it  possible  that  the  lovely  and  intelligent  girl 
could  be  indeed  his  child,  the  child  of  his  young" 
Kate.  A  series  of  most  provoking,  most  distressing 
occurrences  had  prevented  his  returning  even  on 
leave  to  England;  he  had  been  ordered,  during  a 
long  and  painful  v*^ar,  from  place  to  place,  and  from 
country  to  country,  until  at  last  he  almost  began  ta 
despair  of  ever  seeing  home  again.  It  was^  not  in  the 
nature  of  his  wife's  love  to  change.  And  it  was  a 
beautiful  illustration  of  woman's  constancy,  the  ha- 
bitual and  affectionate  manner  in  which  Mrs.  Caven- 
dish referred  all  things  to  the  remembered  feelings 
and  opinions  of  her  absent  Husband.  Poor  Mrs. 
Seymour  ejsigted  on  to  spite  humanity,  discontent- 
ed  and  complaining  —  a  living  scourge  to  good  na- 


THE    TWO    KATES.  37 

tore  and  sympathy,  under  whatever  semblance  it  ap- 
pear^d^  —  or,  perhaps,  for  the  sake  of  contrast,  to 
show  her  daughter's  many  virtues  in  more  glowing 
colors.  The  contrast  was  painful  in  the  extreme, 
and  no  one  could  avoid  feeling  for  the  two  Kates, 
worried  as  they  both  were  with  the  unceasing  com- 
plainings of  their  wo-working  parent.  If  a  month 
passed  without  letters  arriving  from  Colonel  Caven- 
dish, Mrs.  Seymour  was  sure  to  tell  them  "  to  pre- 
pare for  the  worst," — and  concluded  her  observations 
by  the  enlivening  assurance  "  that  she  had  always 
been  averse  to  her  marriage  with  a  soldier,  because 
she  felt  assured  that,  if  he  went  away,  he  would  never 
return ! " 

At  last,  one  of  the  desolating  battles  that  filled 
England  with  widows,  and  caused  multitudes  of  or- 
phans to  weep  in  our  highways,  sent  agony  to  the 
heart  of  the  patient  and  enduring :  the  fatal  return 
at  the  head  of  the  column,  "  Colonel  Cavendish  ??i?ss- 
ing,"  was  enough;  he  had  escaped  so  many  perils, 
not  merely  victorious,  but  unhurt,  that  she  had  in  her 
fondness  believed  he  bore  a  charmed  life  ;  and  were 
her  patience,  her  watchings,  her  hopes,  to  be  so  re- 
warded? was  her  child  fatherless?  and  was  her  heart 
desolate?  Violent  was  indeed  her  grief,  and  fearful 
her  distraction;  but  it  had,  like  all  violent  emotion, 
its  reaction  ;  she  hoped  on,  in  the  very  teeth  of  her 
despair;  she  w^as  sure  he  was  not  dead — how  could 
he  be  dead?  he  that  had  so  often  escaped  —  could  it 
be  possible,  that  at  the  last  he  had  fallen  ?  Providence, 
she  persisted,  was  too  merciful  to  permit  such  a  sor- 
row to  rest  upon  her  and  her  innocent  child ;  and 
she  resolutely  resolved  not  to  put  on  mourning,  or 
display  any  of  the  usual  tokens  of  affection,  although 
every  one  else  believed  him  dead.  One  of  the  ser- 
geants of  his  own  regiment  had  seen  him  struck  to 


88 


THE   TWO    KATES. 


the  earth  by  a  French  sabre,  and  immediately  after 
a  troop  of  cavalry  rode  over  the  ground,  thus  leaving 
no  hopes  of  his  escape ;  the  field  of  battle  in  that  spot 
presented  the  next  day  a  most  lamentable  spectacle; 
crushed  were  those  lately  full  of  life,  its  hopes  and 
expectations;  they  had  saturated  the  field  with  their 
life's  blood  ;  the  torn  standard  of  England  mingled 
its  colors  with  the  standard  of  France ;  no  trace  of 
the  body  of  Colonel  Cavendish  was  found ;  but  his 
sword,  his  rifled  purse,  and  portions  of  his  dress, 
were  picked  up  by  a  young  officer.  Sir  Edmund  Rus- 
sell, who  had  ever  evinced  towards  him  the  greatest 
affection  and  friendship.  Russell  wrote  every  par- 
ticular to  Mrs.  Cavendish,  and  said,  that,  as  he  was 
about  to  return  to  England  in  a  few  weeks,  having 
obtained  sick  leave,  he  would  bring  the  purse  and 
sword  of  his  departed  friend  with  him. 

Poor  Mrs.  Cavendish  murmured  over  the  word 
^'  departed;^'  paled,  shook  her  head,  and  then  looked 
up  into  the  face  of  her  own  Kate,  with  a  smile  beam- 
ing with  hope,  which  certainly  her  daughter  did  not 
feel.  —  "He  is  not  dead,"  she  repeated;  and  in  the 
watches  of  the  night,  v.'hen  in  her  slumbers  she  had 
steeped  her  pillow  with  tears,  she  would  start,  — 
repeat,  "  He  is  not  dead,"  —  then  sleep  again. 
There  was  something  beautiful  and  affecting  in  the 
warm  and  earnest  love,  the  perfect  friendship  exist- 
ing between  tb»s  youthful  mother  and  her  daughter ; 
it  was  so  unlike  the  usual  tie  between  parent  and 
child ;  and  yet  it  was  so  well  cemented,  so  devoted, 
so  respectful !  The  second  Kate,  at  fifteen,  was  more 
womanly,  more  resolute,  more  calm,  more  capable  of 
thought,  than  her  mother  had  been  at  severi-and- 
twenty ;  and  it  was  curious  to  those  who  note  closely 
the  shades  of  human  character,  to  observe  how,  at 
tvvo-and-thirty,  Mrs.  Cavendish  turned  for  advice  and 


THE    TWO    KATES.  .39 


consolation  to  her  high-minded  daughter,  and  leaned 
upon  her  for  support.  Even  Mrs.  Seymour  became 
in  a  great  degree  sensible  of  her  superiority,  and 
felt  something  like  shame  at  complaining,  before  her 
granddaughter,  of  the  frivolous  matters  which  consti- 
tuted the  list  of  her  misfortunes.  The  beauty  of 
Miss  Cavendish  was  like  her  mind,  of  a  lofty  bearing 

—  lofty,  not  proud.  She  looked  and  moved  like  a 
young  queen ;  she  was  a  noble  girl ;  and  when  Sir 
Edmund  Russell  saw  her  first,  he  thought,  —  alas  !  I 
cannot  tell  all  he  thought,  —  but  he  certainly  '*  fell," 
as  it  is  termed,  "  in  love,"  and  nearly  forgot  the 
M'ounds  inflicted  in  the  battle-field,  when  he  acknowl- 
edged to  himself  the  deep  and  everliving  passion  he 
felt  for  the  daughter  of  his  dearest  friend. 

'*  It  is  indeed  most  happy  for  your  mother,"  he 
said  to  her  some  days  after  his  arrival  at  Sydney  Hall, 

—  "  it  is  indeed  most  happy  for  your  mother,  that  she 
does  not  believe  what  I  know  to  be  so  true.  I  think, 
if  she  was  convinced  of  your  father's  death,  she 
would  sink  into  despair." 

"  Falsehood  or  false  impressions,"  replied  Kate, 
*' sooner  or  later  produce  a  sort  of  moral  fever,  which 
leaves  the  patient  weakened  in  body  and  in  mind. 
1  would  rather  she  knew  the  worst  at  once;  —  de- 
spair by  its  own  violence  works  its  own  cure." 

"  Were  it  you,  Miss  Cavendish,  I  should  not  fear 
the  consequences ;  but  your  mother  is  so  soft  ,and 
gentle  in  her  nature." 

"Sir  Edmund,  —  she  ^-/jm' my  father — lived  witli 
him  —  worshipped  him;  the  knowledge  of  his  exist- 
ence was  the  staff  of  hers ;  he  was  the  soul  of  her 
fair  frame.  Behold  her  now;  —  how  beautiful  she 
looks!  —  those  sunbeams  resting  on  her  head,  and 
her  chiselled  features  upturned  towards  heaven,  tra- 
cing  my   father's  portrait   in  those  fleecy  clouds,  or 


40 


THE   TWO   KATES. 


amid  yonder  trees ;  and  do  you  mark  the  hectic  on 
her  cheek?  Could  she  believe  it,  1  know  she  would 
be  better :  there's  not  a  stroke  upon  the  bell,  there's 
not  an  echo  of  a  foot-fall  in  the  great  avenue,  but 
she  thinks  it  is  his.  At  night  she  starts,  if  but  a 
mouse  do  creep  along  the  wainscot,  or  a  soft  breeze 
disturb  the  blossoms  of  the  woodbine  that  press 
against  our  window ;  and  then  exclaims,  '  I  thought 
it  was  your  father  ! '  " 

With  such  converse,  and  amid  the  rich  and  vari- 
ous beauties  of  a  picturesque,  rambling  old  country 
house,  with  its  attendant  green  meadows,  pure  trout 
stream,  and  sylvan  grottoes,  —  sometimes  with  Mrs. 
Cavendish,  sometimes  v/ithout  her,  —  did  Kate  and  Sir 
Edmund  wander,  and  philosophize,  and  fall  in  love. 

One  autumn  evening,  Mrs.  Seymour,  fixing  her 
eyes  upon  the  old  tent-stitch  screen,  said  to  her  daugh- 
ter, who  had,  as  usual,  been  thinking  of  her  husband  — 

"  Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you,  my  dear  Kate,  that 
there  is  likely  to  be  another  fool  in  the  family  ?  I 
say  nothing.  Thanks  to  your  father's  will,  I  have 
had  this  old  rambling  place  left  upon  my  hands  for 
my  life,  which  was  a  sad  drawback ;  — better  he  had 
left  it  to  your  brother." 

"  You  might  have  given  it  up  to  Alfred,  if  you  had 
chosen,  long  ago,"  said  Mrs.  Cavendish,  who  knew 
well  that,  despite  her  grumbling,  her  mother  loved 
tSydney  Hall  as  the  apple  of  her  eye. 

"  What,  and  give  the  world  cause  to  say  that  I 
doubted  my  husband's  judgment!  —  No,  —  no;  I 
am  content  to  suffer  in  silence.  But  do  you  not  per- 
ceive that  your  Kate  is  making  a  fool  of  herself,  just 
as  you  did,  my  dear,  —  falling  in  love  with  a  sol- 
dier, marrying  misery,  and  working  disappointment  ?  " 
More,  a  great  deal  more,  did  the  old  lady  say;  but 
fortunately  nobodv  heard  her;  for  when  her  daush- 


THE   TWO    KATES.  41 

ter  perceived  that  her  eyes  were  safely  fixed  on  the 
tent-stitch  screen,  she  made  her  escape,  and,  as  fate 
would  have  it,  encountered  Sir  Edmund  at  the  door. 
In  a  few  minutes  he  had  told  her  of  his  love  for  her 
beloved  Kate;  but,  though  Mrs.  Cavendish  had  freely 
given  her  own  hand  to  a  soldier,  the  remembrance  of 
what  she  had  suffered,  —  of  her  widowed  years,  the 
uncertainty  of  her  present  state,  anxiety  for  her 
child's  happiness,  a  desire,  a  fear  of  her  future  well- 
being, —  all  rushed  upon  her  with  such  confusion, 
that  she  became  too  agitated  to  reply  to  his  entrea- 
ties; and  he  rushed  from  the  chamber,  to  give  her 
time  to  compose  herself,  and  to  bring  another,  whose 
entreaties  would  be  added  to  his  own.  He  returned 
with  Kate,  pale,  but  almost  as  dignified  as  ever. 
Mrs.  Cavendish  clasped  her  to  her  bosom. 

*'You  would  not  leave  me,  child,  —  would  not 
thrust  your  mother  from  your  heart,  and  place  a 
stranger  there?" 

"No,  —  no,"  she  replied;  "Kate's  heart  is  large 
enough  for  both." 

"  And  do  you  love  him  ?  " 

The  maiden  hid  her  face  upon  her  mother's  bo- 
som ;  yet,  though  she  blushed,  she  did  not  equiv- 
ocate, but  replied,  in  a  low,  firm  voice,  "  Mother, 
I  do." 

"  Sir  Edmund,"  said  the  mother,  still  holding  her 
child  to  her  heart,  "  I  have  suffered  too  much  to 
give  her  to  a  soldier." 

"  Mother,"  whispered  Catherine,  "  yet,  for  all 
that  you  have  suffered,  for  all  that  you  may  endure, 
you  would  not  have  aught  but  that  soldier  husband, 
were  you  to  2Dcd  again  !  " 

No  other  word  passed  the  lips  of  the  young  wid- 
ow; again,  again,  and  again,  did  she  press  her 
child  to  her  bosom ;  then,  placing  her  fair  hand  with- 


42  THE    TWO    KATES. 

in  Sir  Edmund's  palm,  rushed,  in  an  agony  of  tears,  to 
the  solitude  of  her  own  chamber. 

*' Hark  !  how  the  bells  are  ringing!"  said  Anne 
I^eafy  to  Jenny  Fleming,  as  they  were  placing  white 
roses  in  their  stomachers,  and  snooding  their  hair 
with  fine  satin  ribbon.  "  And  saw  you  ever  a  brio-hter 
morning?  —  Kate  Cavendish  will  have  a  blithesome 
bridal :  though  I  hear  that  Madam  Seymour  is  very 
angry,  and  says  no  luck  will  attend  this,  no  more 
than  the  last  wedding!"  The  words  had  hardly 
passed  the  young  maid's  lips,  when  a  bronze  counte- 
nance pressed  itself  amid  the  roses  of  the  little  sum- 
mer-house in  which  they  sat  arranging  their  little 
finery,  and  a  rough  and  travel-soiled  man  inquired, 
*'  Of  whom  speak  ye  ?  " 

"  Save  us!  "  exclaimed  Jenny  Fleming,  who  was  a 
trifle  pert.  "Save  us,  master!  —  why,  at  the  wed- 
ding at  the  Hall,  to  be  sure,  —  Kate  Cavendish's  wed- 
ding, to  be  sure;  she  was  moped  long  enough,  for 
certain,  and  now  is  going  to  marry  a  brave  gentle- 
man. Sir  Edmund  Russell !  "  The  stranger  turned 
from  the  village  girls,  who,  fearful  of  being  late  at 
the  church,  set  away  across  the  garden  of  the  little 
inn,  leaving  the  wayfarer  in  quiet  possession,  but 
with  no  one  in  the  dwelling  to  attend  the  guests,  ex- 
cept a  deaf  waiter,  who  could  not  hear  the  "strange 
gentleman's  "  questions,  and  a  dumb  ostler,  who  was 
incapable  of  replying  to  them. 


The  youthful  bride  and  the  young  bridecrroom 
stood  together  at  the  altar;  and  a  beautiful  sight  it 
was  to  see  them  on  the  threshold  of  a  new  existence. 
Mrs.  Cavendish  might  be  pardoned  for  that  she  wept 
abundantly,  —  partly  tears  of  mf^raory,  partly  of  hope, 
—  and  the  ceremony  proceeded  to   the  words,  "If 


THE    TWO   KATES.  43 

either  of  you  know  any  impediment,"  —  when  there 
was  a  rush,  a  whirl,  a  commotion  outside  the  porch, 
and  the  stranger  of  the  inn  rushed  forward,  exclaim- 
ing, "I  know  an  impediment,  —  she  is  mine!  " 

A  blessing  upon  hoping,  trusting,  enduring  wo- 
man !  A  thousand  blessings  upon  those  who  draw 
consolation  from  the  deepness  of  despair  !  —  Wife  was 
right  —  her  husband  was  not  dead  —  and  as  Colonel 
Cavendish  pressed  his  own  Kate  to  his  bosom,  and 
gazed   upon  her  face,   he  said,  "  I  am  bewildered ! 

—  they  told  me  false,  —  they  said  Kate  Cavendish 
was  to  be  married  !  and  —  " 

'•  And  so  she  is,"  interrupted  Sir  Edmund  Russell; 
"  but  from  your  hand  only  will  I  receive  her  :  are  there 
not  TWO  Kates,  my  old  friend  ?  " 

What  the  noble  soldier's  feelings  were.  Heaven 
knows;  —  no  human  voice  could  express  them,  no 
pen  write  them;  —  they  burst  from,  and  yet  were 
treasured  in  his  heart. 

"  My  child  !  —  that   my    daughter  !  —  two    Kates  ! 

—  wife  and  child!"  he  murmured.  Time  had  gal- 
lopped  with  him ;  and  it  was  long  ere  he  believed  that 
his  daughter  could  be  old  enough  to  marry.  The 
villa2:ers  from  without  crowded  into  the  sweet  village 
church,  and,  moved  by  the  noise,  Mrs.  Seymour  put 
on  her  new  green  spectacles,  and  stepped  forward  to 
where  Colonel  Cavendish  stood  trembling  between 
his  wife  and  child ;  then,  looking  him  earnestly  in  the 
face,  she  said,  "After  all,  it  is  really  you!  —  Bless 
me !  how  ill  you  look  !  —  I  never  could  bear  to  make 
people  uncomfortable ;  but  if  you  do  not  take  great 
care,  you  will  not  live  a  month !  " 

"  I  said  he  was  not  dead,"  repeated  his  gentle 
wife;  *'  and  I  said — "  But  what  does  it  matter  what 
was  said? — Kate  the  second  was  married;  and  that 


44  COUNT   RODOLPH's   HEIR. 

evening,  after  Colonel  Cavendish  had  related  his  hair- 
breadth 'scapes,  and  a  sad  story  of  imprisonment, 
again  did  his  wife  repeat,  "/  said  he  was  not 
dead!" 


COUNT    RODOLPH'S    HEIR. 

The  rich  glow  of  an  autumn  sun  reddened  the 
evening  sky  when  Count  Rodolph  von  Lindensberg 
flung  himself  on  a  couch  to  rest,  after  a  long  day's 
journey.  He  had  apparently  been  unsuccessful,  for 
no  grisly  boar's  head  with  its  grinning  tusks  had  been 
borne  homewards  by  his  triumphant  followers ;  yet 
there  was  a  gleam  of  proud  satisfaction  in  his  eye, 
and  a  curl  on  his  lip,  such  as  they  wear  who  bring  the 
news  of  a  victory  ;  and  when  Leona,  his  beautiful 
Italian  mistress,  offered  him  a  cup  of  Rhenish  wine, 
he  waved  it  from  him,  as  though  his  thirst  had  been 
already  quenched  at  the  purer  fountain  of  the  torrents 
on  his  native  hills. 

Leona  softly  replaced  the  massy  goblet  on  a  table 
which  stood  near  ;  she  unbuckled  from  his  breast  the 
leathern  and  velvet  belt,  to  which  was  suspended  his 
ivory  hunting-horn,  and  on  which  was  traced,  in 
cunning  embroidery,  the  motto,  "  Thy  voice  is  ever 
welcome!"  She  shook  the  velvet  cushion,  filled 
with  light  eider-down,  whereon  that  beloved  head 
was  to  repose,  and  sate  down  to  watch  his  slumbers, 
and  guard  them  against  interruption.  For  a  while 
she  sang,  in  a  low,  modulated  voice,  the  wild  airs  of 
the  country  to  which  her  lover  belonged ;  then  the 
mellower  music  of  Italy  stole,  as  if  involuntarily,  to 


COUNT    RODOLPIl's    HEIR.  45 

lips  which  had  learned,  for  Rodolph's  sake,  to  speak 
a  harsher  language ;  and  in  a  little  space  even  that 
ceased  :  a  tear,  shed  perhaps  for  many  a  dear  mem- 
ory in  her  own  forsaken  land,  trembled  on  her  long, 
black  eyelashes,  till,  hastily  shaking  the  gathered  drops 
away,  she  turned  to  gaze  upon  the  sleeper.  Long 
she  watched  and  gazed  with  intense  and  eager  love, 
her  dark  eyes  dwelling  on  every  feature,  as  though 
earth  held  no  parallel  to  their  beauty.  Sometimes 
she  looked  on  the  broad,  determined  brow,  and 
thought  of  the  majesty  and  inspiration  which  sate  on 
it  as  a  throne  —  sometimes  the  bold  and  exquisitely 
chiselled  profile  fixed  her  attention,  and  recalled  those 
early  days  of  affection,  when  she  saw  in  him  the 
realization  of  all  the  dreams  Grecian  sculptor  or 
painter  ever  wrought;  then  the  calm,  statue-like 
curve  of  the  lip  caught  her  eye,  and  she  drew  the 
lines,  as  it  were,  in  her  heart  a  hundred  and  a  hun- 
dred times;  or  her  glance  would  wander,  with  some 
stray  beam  of  the  evening  sun,  to  those  short  and 
shining  curls  of  brown,  which  seemed  nearly  auburn 
in  its  golden  light.  And  still,  as  she  leaned  and 
gazed,  listening  all  the  while  to  his  deep  and  meas- 
ured breathing,  as  though  it  had  been  music,  she 
brought  to  mind  some  trait  of  character,  some  act 
of  frank  generosity  or  daring  bravery,  some  kind 
deed  or  gentle  word  —  of  the  thousand  she  had  treas- 
ured up  —  and  dwelt  separately  on  each;  smiling  to 
herself  as  she  mused,  and  feeling  as  though  such 
thoughts  increased  a  love  already  approaching  to 
idolatry. 

And  yet  was  he  she  loved  only  as  other  men  !  Nay, 
not  so  frank,  or  brave,  or  quick,  or  valiant  as  some, 
but  one  of  a  hasty  temper  and  proud  mind ;  a  vio- 
lent spirit,  and  a  faint,  inconstant  heart;  wayward. 


46  COUNT  RODOLPH's  HEIR. 

Vain,  and  weak,  save  in  the  common-place  courage, 
that  strikes  when  it  is  struck,  revenges  when  it  is  in^ 
suited,  and  shields  the  feeble  from  injury. 

But  who  shall  blame  thee,  Leona,  or  who  shall  call 
thy  choice  unwise  ?  Do  we  not  all  daily  wonder  at  others 
for  the  insufficiency  or  unworthiness  of  the  object  to 
whom  they  devote  their  hearts?  Does  not  each  secret- 
ly undervalue  and  marvel  at  the  choice  of  his  or  her 
neighbor  ?  And  wherefore  ?  Because  the  ideal  is  so 
mingled  with  our  love,  that  we  do,  as  it  were,  glorify 
the  objects  of  our  affection  —  we  bestow  our  dream- 
ing love  of  what  might  he  on  that  which  is  —  we 
love  a  mortal  nature  with  all  the  strength  of  our 
immortal  souls  —  we  desire  to  imbody  our  dream  of 
affection,  and  clothe  it  in  clay,  that  it  may  be  a 
*'help  meet  for  us"  —  and  we  strive  in  vain! 

But  the  spell  was  ^strong  on  Leona's  heart  as  she 
gazed  on  her  lover's  face  by  the  light  of  the  autumn 
sky.  The  red  sun  sank  lower  and  lower,  the  hills 
grew  purple  and  dark,  the  clear  moon  rose  faintly  in 
the  twilight,  as  if  impatient  to  begin  her  reign  — 
but  Leona  still  sate  quiet  and  motionless ;  nor  let  us 
think  the  time  long,  or  deem  that  tedious  in  the 
telling,  which  was  to  her  the  last,  brief,  closing  hour 
of  a  seven  years'  happiness. 

Count  Rodolph  moved  and  murmured  in  his  sleep. 
Gently,  almost  imperceptibly  she  bent,  as  though 
afraid  to  wake  him,  and  yet  loath  to  lose  even  those 
few  murmured  syllables.  The  smile  forsook  her  lip, 
the  color  fied  from  her  cheek  as  she  listened,  and  a 
fierce  jealousy  flashed  from  her  dark,  dilated  eyes. 
Again  the  sleeper  uttered  those  fatal  words,  and 
Leona,  starting  up,  exclaimed,  "  Awake,  Rodolph  !  " 
"Awake,  traitor!'^  she  would  have  added,  but  the 
word  died  on  her  lips.     "  Of  what  wert  thou  dream- 


COUNT    RODOLPh's    IIEIU.  47 

ing?''  asked  she,  in  a  choked  tone,  as  her  lover's 
angry  glance  turned  full  on  her,  questioning  what  had 
disturbed  his  slumber, 

A  cliange  passed  over  Count  Rodolph's  face ;  but 
he  took  her  hand,  and  answered,  with  a  forced  sniile^ 
"  Must  we  remember  dreams,  when  the  reality  is 
again  present  to  us?" 

Leona  drew  not  away  her  hand,  but  it  lay  in  his 
warm  grasp,  chill  and  cold  as  ice;  and  her  voice 
sounded  hoarse  to  his  ear  as  she  replied,  "  The  real- 
ity of  thy  dream  is  not  present  to  thee ;  for  in  that 
dream  thou  didst  call  upon  Adelaide  von  Ringhen." 

"  Thou  mockest,  Leona  !  " 

"  Thou  mockest !  "  exclaimed  the  Italian,  while 
her  whole  frame  shook  with  convulsive  passion, 
*'  Twice  thou  didst  call  on  her  —  twice  thy  slumber- 
ing lips  murmured  Adelaide  von  Ringhen,  my  beloved 
bride!  " 

"  We  are  not  accountable  for  our  dreaming 
thoughts,"  muttered  Rodolph,  in  a  tone  of  vexation. 

"  Then  wherefore  shrink  from  avowing  them  ? 
But  it  is  not  so;  that  which  we  think  of  waking,  is 
present  to  us  in  sleep ;  we  act  and  suffer  in  impossi- 
ble scenes,  perhaps,  and  in  impossible  situations  — 
but  there  is  no  other  change.  It  were  long,  Ro- 
dolph,  before  /  should  murmur  in  my  dreams  any 
name  but  thine ;  and  there  hath  been  a  time  when, 
if  I  bent  to  catch  thy  slumbering  thoughts,  the  word 
Leona  fell  gently  on  my  ear,  in  the  same  tone  of 
fondness  with  which  thou  hast  just  pronounced  the 
name  of  another." 

Count  Rodolph  answered  not,  but  seemed  to  muse, 
unconscious  of  her  presence ;  and  when,  at  length, 
checking  a  painful  sigh,  he  turned  to  speak  to  her, 
there  was  an  ominous  expression  in  his  countenance, 
which  jstartled  the  young  Italian,     The   anger  and 


48 


COUNT   RODOLPH'S   HEIR. 


jealousy  which  had  possessed  her  but  a  moment  be- 
fore, vanished ;  a  fearful  terror  fell  upon  her;  a  be- 
wildering faintness  numbed  every  limb;  and,  falling  at 
his  feet,  she  stretched  out  her  arms  wildly  and  be- 
seechingly towards  him,  and  exclaimed,  '*  O  Ro- 
dolph  !  these  seven  years  my  head  hath  lain  on  thy 
bosom  —  these  seven  years  !     Home,  mother,  country, 

—  I  left  all  to  follow  thee.  Forsake  me  not!  for- 
sake  me  not !  " 

"Be  patient,  beloved  Leona;  I  Vv'ill  never  forsake 
thee;  but  thou  hast  demanded  an  explanation  of  the 
words  I  uttered  unwittingly  in  my  sleep ;  and  per- 
haps destiny  so  ordered  it,  that  thou  shouldst  partly 
guess  from  those  idle  sentences  what  is  to  be  thy  fate 

—  and  mine.     Seat  thyself  near  me,  and  listen." 
Leona   obeyed :    she   neither   wept    nor    changed 

countenance,  while  he  told  of  his  proud  uncle's  de- 
sire to  see  him  wedded  to  the  wealthy  and  noble 
heiress  of  Ringhen,  and  of  the  consequent  arrange- 
ments made  between  the  two  families.  She  listened 
calmly,  while  he  confessed  how  often  the  boar  hunt 
had  been  made  a  pretext  for  his  absence,  while,  in 
fact,  he  was  endeavoring  to  win  the  heart  of  the  cold 
and  gentle  Adelaide;  and  how,  as  the  certainty  of 
his  success  became  apparent,  he  imagined  various 
methods  of  breaking  the  intelligence  to  his  faithful 
companion.  Once  only,  as  he  alluded  to  his  uncle's 
wish  to  see  an  heir  to  his  proud  domains,  Leona 
bovv^ed  her  head   still  lower,   and  spoke. 

"  If  my  child  had  lived,  then,"  said  she,  moodily, 
"thou  wouldst  not  have  cast  me  off!" 

"  Thy  child!  alas,  Leona!"  said  her  lover,  while 
a  smile  of  regret  and  bitterness  curled  his  lip;  "dost 
thou  vainly  imagine  thy  child  could  have  been  heir 
to  Lindensberg?  No!  I  would  indeed  have  done  a 
father's  part  by  him,  and  he  should  have  stood  proud- 


COUNT    RODOLPIl's    HEIR.  49 

ly  among  the  best ;  but  nobler  blood  must  flow  in  the 
veins  of  Count  Rodolph's  heir." 

A-  wild,  searching  expression  shot  into  the  eyes 
of  the  unhappy  Italian,  as  they  turned  for  a  moment 
upon  Rodolph;  but  he  saw  it  not;  his  heart  was 
brooding  over  the  future  triumph  of  presenting  his 
young  son  to  the  vassals  of  Lindensberg. 

With  equal  patience  Leona  heard  all  the  arrange- 
ments for  her  future  comfort;  how  she  was  to  be 
provided  for,  and  in  what  way  she  should  return  to 
her  native  land  ;  but  it  was  the  calm  of  despair.  As 
they  parted,  after  this  long  explanation.  Count  Ro- 
dolph bent  and  kissed  her  cheek ;  it  was  pale  and 
cold  as  death. 

'•  We  part  not  in  anger,"  murmured  he.  "  I  shall 
never  love  another  as  I  have  loved  thee.  Dost  thou 
believe  me,  Leona?  " 

The  young  Italian  answered  not;  a  shudder  ran 
through  her  frame,  and  a  mist  was  before  her  eyes. 
When  she  again  raised  them,  Count  Rodolph  had 
Jeft  the  apartment. 

Leona  moved  towards  the  high  and  narrow  arched 
window;  the  moon  was  risen,  and  the  broad  lands  of 
Lindensberg  lay  stretching  far  as  eye  could  discern 
in  the  white,  misty  light.  She  thought  of  the  days  of 
her  girlhood  —  of  all  her  passionate  love  —  her  pa- 
tient tenderness  —  the  tenderness  that  never  dreamed 
of  change.  She  thought  of  the  vows  Rodolph  had 
then  uttered,  and  to  which  she  had  listened  with  the 
confident  credulity  of  affection:  she  retraced  the 
scenes  where  they  had  wandered  together,  and  the 
words  they  had  spoken.  Her  lost  mother's  reproach- 
ful countenance  rose  distinctly  as  on  the  day  when 
her  daughter's  shame  was  made  known  to  her  ;  and, 
musing  on  the  utter  desolateness  of  her  position, 
should  she  return  to  the  land  where  she  once  had 
4 


50 


COrNT   RODOLrH'S    HEIR. 


many  friends,  Leona  wept.  Long,  long  she  wept, 
and  wildly  and  often  she  clasped  her  feverish  hands, 
and  stretched  them  to  Heaven ;  but  at  length  the 
fountain  of  her  tears  seemed  dried.  She  rose  from 
the  ground,  where  she  had  knelt  in  despair;  she 
smoothed  back  her  tangled,  raven  hair,  and,  lifting 
the  veil  which  had  fallen  from  her  shoulders,  she 
turned  once  more  to  the  window.  Dark  and  terrible 
was  the  expression  of  her  pale  face  as  she  did  so,  and 
the  white,  quiet  moonlight  fell  on  a  brow  convulsed 
with  agony.  "  Thou  art  mine  enemy;  thou  who  art 
to  inherit  hill,  and  dale,  and  river,"  muttered  Leona, 
wildly,  as  she  gazed  on  the  tracts  of  forest  and  plaint 
which  lay  below  —  "-thou  art  mine  enemy,  heir  to 
Lindensberg." 

The  morrow  of  that  dark  day  came.  Its  morning 
was  fair  and  bright ;  and,  as  Rodolph  sprang  from  his 
couch,  his  heart  felt  lighter  than  for  many  weeks,  for 
he  had  nothing  now  to  dread  or  to  conceal;  and  Le- 
ona had  heard  him  far,  far  more  calmly  than  he  had 
expected.  "I  was  wrong,"  said  he,  as  he  hastily 
s^lung  on  the  hunting-belt  embroidered  by  her  hand  — 
*'  I  was  VsTong  in  my  estimate  of  a  woman's  strength 
of  feeling.  Perhaps  she,  too,  began  to  feel  the  ties 
irksome  which  bound  us  together,  and  will  return  to 
her  native  land  with  pleasure.  Now  to  the  chase  !  " 
and,  as  he  lifted  the  hunting  bugle  to  his  lips,  he 
carelessly  uttered  the  words,  to  which  the  young 
Italian  had  assigned  a  double  meaning,  "  Thy  voice 
is  ever  welcome!  " 

The  chase  was  long  and  the  day  sultry ;  and  when, 
on  his  return.  Count  Rodolph  came  round  by  the 
torrent's  fall,  from  whence  he  could  command  a  view 
of  his  own  castle,  he  checked  his  horse,  and  wound 
his  bugle  three  times.  As  its  sweet,  mellow  tones 
Hoated  past,  and  died  upon  the  hill,  he  said,  smiling 


COUNT    RODOLPIl's    HEIR.  51 

slightly  to  himself,  "Now  shall  I  judge  of  the  mood 
iin  which  I  shall  find  Leoiia;  if  she  be  gentle,  she 
will  sound  the  silver-tipped  horn,  wherewith  I  taught 
her  long  since  playfully  to  reply  to  this  notice  of 
my  approach,  and  give  me  welcome ;  if  she  be  sad 
and  sullen,  I  shall  miss  the  accustomed  answer." 

There  was  a  pause,  a  longer  pause  than  for  seven 
long  years  had  ever  been,  between  the  blast  of  Ro- 
dolph's  hunting-horn  and  his  welcome  home.  The 
fitful  autumn  wind  swept  in  a  sudden  gust  among  the 
trees  which  grew  on  the  banks  of  the  torrent,  and 
scattered  a  shower  of  yellow,  withered  leaves  past 
his  plumed  cap,  as  he  sat,  bending  forward  on  his 
weary,  but  impatient  steed,  listening  for  the  signal. 
In  spite  of  his  carelessness  and  inconstancy,  a  sud- 
den and  stinging  melancholy  smote  on  Rodolph's 
heart;  the  mocking  smile  left  his  lip;  twice  he  lifted 
his  bugle,  and  twice  his  pride  struggled  against  the 
desire  to  hear  an  assurance  that  she  he  was  for- 
saking loved  him  in  spite  of  all.  At  last,  that  desire 
conquered ;  he  might  not  have  been  heard ;  the  wind 
was  high,  although  the  noon  had  been  oppressively 
hot.  He  blew  a  loud,  strong  blast,  and  listened  in- 
tently, lifting  his  velvet  bonnet  from  his  head.  Again 
there  was  a  pause;  and,  with  a  feeling  of  deep  irri- 
tation, Rodolph  struck  the  spurs  in  his  horse's  side. 
Rearing  at  the  unexpected  correction,  the  gallant 
animal  sprang  forward,  trampling  the  withered  boughs 
and  loose  stones  by  the  torrent's  side;  when,  just  at 
that  moment,  faint  and  mournful,  but  distinctly  clear, 
the  answering  signal  reached  Count  Rodolph.  Three 
times  it  answered  his  thrice-repeated  summons ;  and 
there  was  tenderness  as  well  as  triumph  in  his  tone, 
as  he  m.urmured,  "  Bless  thee,  Leona  !  "  But  the  ear 
of  the  experienced  huntsman  told  him  that  it  was  not 
from  his  home  that  the  answering  note  was  sent,  but 


^2  r.oTJNT  rocolph's  heir. 

from  a  hill  to  the  left,  where  a  ruined  castle  stood 
mouldering  to  decay,  untenanted  and  forsaken,  and 
avoided  by  the  peasantry  as  the  scene  of  a  foul  mur- 
der done  by  a  son  upon  his  aged  father.  **  She  hath 
been  wandering  from  home,  musing  over  the  change 
in  her  condition  ;  perhaps  weeping  for  my  sake,"  he 
thought;  and  his  heart  softened  towards  the  fond 
companion  of  his  youthful  years. 

That  evening  was  a  long  and  lonely  one  to  Count 
Rodolph.  With  his  own  hot  and  weary  hands  he 
unbuckled  the  clasps  of  his  hunting-vest,  and  awk- 
wardly arranged  the  mantle  and  pillow,  whereon  he 
was  accustomed  to  rest,  lulled  by  the  sweet  melody 
of  Leona's  songs;  his  thirsty  lips  drank  from  a  gob- 
let brought  by  a  serving-man;  he  could  not  close  his 
tired  eyes,  but  evermore  gazed  sorrowfully  at  the 
embrasure  and  fretted  oak-work  of  the  Gothic  win- 
dow at  which  they  had  stood  the  preceding  evening. 
They!  He  had  thought  without  a  sigh  of  sending 
Leona  from  him  forever,  of  uniting  his  destinies  with 
another;  and  nov/  he  could  not  bear  to  spend  one 
evening  awaiting  her  return ;  he  could  not  bear  the 
fond  and  foolish  reflection  that  7/s.  and  we,  and  ours, 
would  no  longer  refer  to  himself  and  the  young 
Italian,  but  to  some  newer  partner,  to  whom  half 
the  joys  and  sorrows  of  his  life  were  unknown.  He 
thought  he  had  ceased  to  love  Leona;  perhaps  he 
had  ;  but  the  habit  of  seven  years  is  strong;  he  could 
not  imagine  to  himself  a  future  in  which  she  was  to 
be  nothing,  who  had  been  all  the  world  to  him.  He 
shrank  from  the  novelty  and  strangeness  of  a  life 
which  must,  as  it  v>'ere,  begin  anew;  throughout 
the  course  of  which  one  haunting  sorrow  must  ever 
pursue  him,  which  he  dared  not  confide,  and  in  which, 
unlike  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  the  past,  he  could 
expect  no  sympathy. 


COUNT    RODOLPIl's    HEIIl.  5ti 

He  closed  his  eyes,  and  courted  rest  in  vain.  H« 
missed  the  gentle  hand  that  was  wont  to  lie  clasped 
in  iiis,  till  his  slumbering  arm  sank  nerveless  and 
Unconscious  by  his  side.  He  missed  the  ringing, 
Warbling  notes  of  her  young  voice;  he  missed  the 
deep,  watchful  tenderness  of  her  gaze,  as  he  remem- 
bered it  through  countless  evenings,  when  his  eyelids, 
heavy  with  slumber,  unclosed  for  a  moment  to  turn 
on  her  a  last  look  of  love. 

"  How  shall  I  live  without  thee,  Leona?"  sighed 
he  ;  *'  and  vvhy  dost  thou  linger  out  so  late,  when  the 
evenings  are  numbered  that  we  may  spend  together?'' 
And  again  he  gazed  towards  the  window,  while  dreams 
of  relinquishing  the  noble  alliance  proposed  to  him, 
urid  thoughts,  less  honorable,  of  concealing  Leona 
in  some  secure  retreat,  where  he  might  yet  see  and 
visit  her,  passed  through  his  mind.  But  still  Leona 
returned  not. 

And  when  the  next  day,  and  the  next,  passed  on, 
and  all  search  for  the  young  Italian  proved  vain, 
Count  Rodolph  felt  to  the  core  of  his  remorseless 
heart  that  he  had  underrated  the  sorrow  of  the  de- 
serted girl,  and  that  she  had  departed  to  hide  he-r 
shame  and  despair,  where  none  —  not  even  he — ■ 
might  find  her, 

At  length  the  lonely  castle  of  Lindensberg  was 
again  the  scene  of  festivity  and  rejoicings.  The 
sound  of  wassail  and  merriment  was  heard  in  the 
great  hall,  choral  songs  were  chanted,  flowers  were 
strown,  and  the  fair  Adelaide  Von  Ringhen  became 
Count  Rodolph's  bride.  A.s  the  bridal  procession 
passed  through  the  long  gallery  which  led  from  the 
chapel,  a  wreath  of  flowers,  flung  from  above,  fell  at 
the  Lady  Adelaide's  feet.  Several  of  the  group  im- 
mediately near  the  young  bride  looked  up  to  discover 
by  whose  hand  the  offering  was  made;  but  Rodolph'8 


64  COUNT   RODOLPH's    HEIR. 

keen  eye  alone  discerned  the  shrinking  form  of  Le« 
ona  retreat  behind  one  of  those  gigantic  stone  statues, 
which,  at  regular  distances,  adorned  the  gallery.  The 
discovery  sent  a  chill  to  his  heart;  and  it  was  the 
space  of  a  minute  before  he  recollected  himself  suf- 
ficiently to  pick  up  the  wreath,  which  he  did,  and 
with  a  forced  smile  tendered  it  to  the  bride.  An 
exclamation  burst  from  her  lips;  and,  as  her  maidens 
crowded  round,  the  wreath  fell  from  her  hands,  while 
faint,  and  pale,  and  trembling,  she  looked  up  in  her 
husband's  face.  He  snatched  the  garland,  and  ex- 
amined it  more  closely  :  a  label,  in  a  well-known 
hand-writing,  dedicated  it  to  "  The  Mother  of  Count 
jRodolph's  Heir"  and  he  perceived  that  it  was  com- 
posed of  nightshade,  yew,  and  other  mournful,  sepul- 
chral, or  supposed  poisonous  plants.  He  commanded 
it  to  be  removed,  and,  flinging  it  from  him,  passed  on 
as  rapidly  as  the  faint  and  tottering  steps  of  Adelaide 
would  permit;  but  none  of  the  attendants,  unedu- 
cated and  superstitious  as  they  were,  dared  to  pick 
up  '*  The  Garland  of  Death,"  and  many  a  fearful 
look  was  cast  back,  by  the  last  loiterers  of  the  pro- 
cession, to  the  spot  on  the  stone  pavement  where 
it  lay. 

Uneasy  and  wretched,  yet  gratified,  in  spite  of 
what  had  occurred,  at  this  proof  that  Leona  had  not 
abandoned  Lindensberg,  Rodolph  burned  for  the 
moment  when  he  might  escape  from  the  noble  com- 
pany by  whom  he  was  surrounded,  and  speak  a  few 
words  of  explanation  with  the  Italian.  Three  mortal 
hours  passed  away,  and  the  bridal  feast  had  passed 
untasted  either  by  Adelaide  or  Rodolph,  when  the 
former,  complaining  of  weariness,  desired  to  be  con- 
ducted to  her  chamber.  Rodolph  supported  her  from 
the  hall,  watched  her  slight  form,  as,  leaning  on  her 
favorite  maid,  she  ascended  the  oaken  staircase — » 


COUNT   RODOLPh's    HEIR.  55 

waited  till  the  last  of  the  white-robed  attendants 
passed  under  the  dark  arch  which  led  to  the  apart- 
ments of  the  lady  of  Lindensberg,  and  then,  with 
a  checked  sigh,  turned  hastily  to  the  chapel  gallery. 
In  vain  he  sought ;  in  vain  he  even  ventured  to 
breathe  Leona's  name  aloud.  No  sign  of  life  was 
in  that  long  and  dimly-lighted  apartment;  and  he 
remained  standing  alone,  disheartened  and  stupefied,, 
gazing  on  the  statues  behind  which  he  had  perceived 
Leona  in  the  morning. 

He  was  interrupted  by  the  sound  of  footsteps,  and", 
looking  eagerly  forwards,  perceived  two  of  the  Lad)^ 
Adelaide's  attendants,  who,  trembling  and  uncertain, 
advanced  hesitatingly  into  the  apartment. 

"What  seek  ye  here?"  asked  Count  Rodolph, 
sternly,  provoked  alike  at  the  interruption,  and  the 
disappointment  it  occasioned  him. 

''  We  come  for  the  Garland  of  Death,  my  lord ; 
the  Lady  Adelaide  desires  that  it  be  brought  instantly 
to  her  chamber." 

"Fools!"  exclaimed  their  irritated  master,  "see' 
ye  not  the  garland  hath  been  borne  away  by  some 
one  of  you  this  morning?  Go!  return  to  the  Lady 
Adelaide,  and  say  Count  Rodolph  will  attend  her, 
and  chase  these  foolish  fears;  bid  the  minstrels  m 
the  outer  hall  strike  up  the  '  Welcome  to  Lindens- 
berg/ and  desire  Caspar  —  " 

What  more  Count  Rodolph  intended  was  lost;  for 
at  that  moment  three  faint  blasts  were  heard,  and 
well  the  master  of  Lindensberg  knew  the  sound.  A 
cold  dew  stood  on  his  forehead,  his  muscular  frame 
shook  with  an  emotion  he  could  not  control,  and  his 
cheek  blanched  like  that  of  a  woman. 

"  Begone  ! "  shouted  he  furiously,  as  he  perceived 
the  attendants  observing  these  signs  of  agitation; 
"^begone!  and  tell  your  mistress  I  come." 


56 


COUNT   RODOLPH'S    HEIR, 


His  young  bride  received  him  in  tears. 

"  Alas  !  "  said  she,  "  some  evil  will  fall  on  thy  house 
because  of  me.  The  Garland  of  Death  hath  disap- 
peared, no  one  can  tell  how ;  for  none  of  my  attend- 
ants ventured  this  morning  to  take  it  up;  and  —  " 

"  Bush,  my  beloved,"  said  Count  Rodolph,  caress- 
ing her;  '*  if  that  be  all,  /can  certify  to  thee  that  the 
garland  was  given  and  reclaimed  by  a  living  hand." 

But,  at  this  moment,  a  chill  doubt  stole  over  the 
mind  of  the  stout  knight  himself,  remembering  the 
ominous  sound  of  the  bugle-horn  just  at  the  moment 
when  he  desired  to  hear  "  Welcome  to  Lindensberg." 
Was  that  indeed  the  result  of  accident?  or  did  the 
spirit  of  the  lost  Leona  haunt  her  once  happy  home? 
Adelaide  gazed  on  her  husband  in  fear  and  dread: 
he  saw  her  not  —  thought  not  of  her  — 

"  His  eyes 
Were  with  his  heart,  and  that  was  far  away;  " 

and  from  that  hour,  the  Garland  of  Death  was  a  for- 
bidden subject  in  the  castle. 


Time  passed  heavily  with  Rodolph.  Involuntarily 
he  tormented  himself  with  conjectures  as  to  what 
had  been  the  fate  of  Leona ;  involuntarily  he  con- 
trasted the  cold  and  gentle  manner,  the  reserved  and 
timid  disposition  of  his  wife,  with  those  which  had 
charmed  his  youth.  She  feared  him;  she  feared  all 
things ;  she  understood  him  not :  she  had  not  the 
power  to  amuse  him ;  and  of  her  affection  it  might 
rather  be  said  that  she  loved  no  other,  than  that  she 
was  passionately  attached  to  Jiim.  Her  very  beauty 
was  that  of  the  snow  —  fair,  cold,  and  dazzling. 
The  glow  of  life  that  animated  his  lost  Leona  was 
wanting. 


COUNT   RODOLPIl's    HEIR.  57 

The  chase  now  became  Rodolph's  principal  de- 
light ;  and  a  shade  of  fierceness,  such  as  comes  to 
those  who  love  only  savage  pleasures,  altered  his 
once  frank  and  even  temper.  He  grew,  too,  less 
social ;  the  feast  and  the  wine-cup  brought  no  smile 
to  his  lip ;  he  was  an  altered  man.  Meanwhile  the 
Lady  Adelaide  was  soon  to  become  a  mother,  and 
her  haughty  relatives,  as  well  as  his  own,  looked 
forward  to  the  birth  of  an  heir  with  deep  anxiety. 
As  the  eventful  period  approached.  Lady  Adelaide's 
terror  increased;  and  though,  in  obedience  to  her 
husband's  command,  she  spoke  not  her  thoughts, 
yet  the  Garland  of  Death  was  ever  present  to  her 
mind,  and  she  marvelled  whether  the  strange  sum- 
mons was  meant  for  her,  or  the  little  unborn. 

Rodolph's  absences  from  home  were  shortened,  and 
all  he  could  do  to  cheer  her  sinking  spirits  was  done ; 
but  in  vain. 

It  was  exactly  a  year  from  the  day  when  Leona 
had  disappeared,  that  Count  Rodolph  happened  to 
ride  home  by  the  same  path  which  he  had  pursued 
on  that  eventful  evening.  As  he  came  to  the  torrent, 
he  checked  his  horse,  and  looked  sadly  round.  The 
evening  was  still  and  clear,  and  the  glow  of  sunlight 
was  rich  on  the  changing  foliage  of  the  trees.  Op- 
pressed by  dispiriting  thoughts,  Rodolph  dismounted 
from  his  horse,  and  flung  himself  on  the  brown  turf, 
where  he  remained  idly  dreaming  of  the  past,  and 
yet  more  idly  planning  for  the  future.  Long  years 
passed  in  review  before  him,  and  he  recalled  the 
sensations  with  which  he  used  to  listen  for  the  sound 
of  Leona's  ivory  hunting-horn.  He  took  off  his  belt 
and  gazed  upon  it;  he  perused  and  reperused  the 
embroidered  words,  *'  Thy  voice  is  ever  welcome ! " 
and   a  stifled  sigh  escaped  him.     "  How  she  wor- 


58  COUNT   RODOLPH's   HEIH. 

shipped  me  !  "  was  his  thought,  as  he  lifted  the  bugle 
listlessly,  and  applied  it  to  his  lips.  Three  slow, 
mournful  blasts  he  blew,  and,  flinging  himself  with 
his  face  to  the  earth,  he  wept. 

Why  starts  Count  Rodolph  from  his  resting-place? 
Why  does  his  eye  glare  wildly  with  a  mixture  of 
living  hope  and  superstitious  fear?  He  hears  the 
answering  signal  float  across  the  hill,  mournfully 
replying  to  his  own.  Without  a  moment's  pause, 
he  threw  himself  on  his  horse,  and  gallopped  towards 
the  ruin  of  the  hill.  He  saw  her  —  he  saw  his  own 
Leona !  She  was  seated  on  the  edge  of  the  inner 
wall  of  the  dried  up  moat,  habited  in  a  black  velvet 
hunting-dress,  such  as  she  was  wont  to  wear  whea 
she  accompanied  him  to  the  chase;  her  eyes  were 
turned  towards  the  distant  castle  of  Lindensberg; 
they  were  dim  and  sunken,  and  her  hair  was  tangled, 
and  had  lost  its  glossy  blackness,  apparently  by  ex- 
posure to  the  elements.  One  hand  supported  her 
head,  and  the  other  rested  on  the  ivory  bugle  which 
lay  by  her  side.  Leona  was  no  longer  beautiful ; 
and  yet  Rodolph  felt  as  though  he  loved  her  more 
than  ever.  She  did  not  seem  to  perceive  him  as  he 
crept  towards  her;  and  when,  at  length,  kneeling  be- 
side her,  he  took  her  hand,  and  faltered  out  her 
name,  she  gazed  around,  as  if  bewildered,  and  un- 
certain from  whence  the  sound  proceeded.  Again 
he  spoke,  pressing  that  cold  hand  within  his  own, 
and  sobbing  in  the  agony  of  his  emotion.  She 
turned  —  she  gazed  on  him;  and  that  glance  was 
present  to  him  till  his  dying  day,  for  he  perceived 
that  she  knew  him  not.  Yet  was  her  gaze  kind  and 
sorrowful ;  and,  parting  his  dark  hair  on  his  forehead, 
she  murmured, 

''  Thou  weepest !     Hast  thou  been  forsaken?  " 


COUNT    RODOLPIl's    HEIR.  59 

*'Leona!  O  beloved  Leona!  I  am  Rodolph,  thy 
unhappy  and  penitent  Rodolph  !  Where  hast  thou 
been,  that  I  have  never  beheld  thee?" 

''I've  been  to  Italy,"  answered  she,  in  a  calm, 
collected  voice  —  '*  I've  been  to  Italy,  to  see  my  poor 
mother's  grave." 

The  heart  of  the  inconstant  lover  beat  within  him, 
as  the  even  tones  fell  on  his  ear.  "She  recovers; 
she  will  know  me  now,"  thought  he. 

*'  And  why  lingerest  thou  in  this  mournful  spot?" 

"  Knowest  thou  not  ?  "  she  answered,  turning  quick- 
ly towards  him  with  a  wild  smile.  "I  wait"  —  and 
she  put  her  lips  close  to  his  ear  —  *•  I  wait  for  Count 
Rodolph's  heir." 

He  shrank  away,  and  rose  from  her  side.  Then, 
gazing  at  her  with  bitter  sadness,  he  said,  "  Collect 
thy  thoughts,  Leona,  and  strive  to  comprehend  me. 
I  am  Rodolph:  I  grieve  for  thee;  rise,  and  let  me 
conduct  thee  to  the  house  of  one  of  my  vassals, 
where  thou  shalt  be  attended  and  cared  for  as  though 
thou  wert  indeed  the  lady  of  Lindensberg.  And  I 
will  come  and  see  thee,  Leona,"  continued  he,  pas- 
sionately ;  "  I  will  cheer  thee,  and  love  thee  still. 
God  knows,  I  love  none  better ! " 

There  was  a  pained  and  perplexed  expression  on 
Leona's  brow  while  he  spoke,  as  though  she  struggled 
to  understand.  For  a  few  moments  she  mused,  and 
then  she  answered,  in  a  tone  of  quiet  courtesy, 

"  It  is  impossible  for  me,  noble  stranger,  to  accom- 
pany thee  even  so  far  on  thy  way,  or  to  do  thee  this 
service,  because  I  expect  Count  Rodolph,  who  re- 
turns, even  now,  from  the  chase :  so  farewell,  and 
God  speed  thee."  And  she  rose  and  bowed  gracefully 
to  her  stupefied  companion. 

*'0!  if  I  could  but  leave  thee  in  safety!"  ex- 
claimed he  aloud,  as  he  passionately  gazed  on  her 


60 


COUNT   KODOLPH'S   HEIF, 


impassive  face.  And  then  the  method  so  often  re- 
sorted to,  of  humoring  partial  madness,  occurred  to 
him,  and  he  said,  "  The  way  is  long,  and  the  path  is 
steep,  which  Count  Rodolph  hath  to  tread  ;  he  cannot 
be  home  so  soon.     Come  with  me  but  a  little  way." 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  Leona,  shaking  her  head  and 
smiling,  "  he  is  nearer  than  thou  thinkest;  he  is  with- 
in sight  of  Lindensberg ;  I  have  heard  the  signal,  and 
answered  it,"  And  she  held  on  high  the  ivory  bugle. 
*'  I  will  watch  from  the  western  gallery."  So  saying, 
she  turned  and  ran  swiftly  towards  the  ruin,  and 
commenced  ascending  the  broken  staircase,  which 
led  to  what  had  been  the  principal  apartment  of  the 
castle ;  but  between  the  ruins  of  the  staircase  (which 
were  of  a  great  height)  and  the  solid  building,  where- 
in a  dark  arch  showed  the  entrance  of  the  ruined 
hall,  there  was  a  space  which  no  mortal  could  trav- 
erse ;  and  as  Leona  still  ascended,  and  at  length  neared 
the  summit  of  the  broken  steps,  Rodolph  shaded  his 
eyes,  that  he  might  not  see  her  dashed  into  the  dis- 
tant court  below.  He  tried  to  call,  but  his  voice  was 
hoarse  and  v/hispering  with  fear.  He  waited,  but  the 
suspense  was  too  terrible ;  he  uncovered  his  eyes,  and 
looked  up;  and  there,  gliding  slowly,  but  securely, 
across  the  abyss,  he  beheld  Leona!  She  disappeared 
beneath  the  arch ;  and,  rushing  up  the  ruined  stair, 
crumbling  the  loose  stones  downwards  as  he  went,  he 
followed.  "  There  must  be  some  frail  support,  some 
connection  betv/een  the  steps  and  the  building,  which 
my  eye  cannot  perceive  from  below,"  thought  he,  as 
lie  struggled  on ;  but  when  he  stood  on  the  last  of 
that  broken  flight  of  steps  as  on  a  pinnacle,  there  was 
nothing  to  afford  a  chance  of  reaching  the  arch,  and 
his  head  grew  dizzy  as  he  looked  below.  Again 
6uperstitious  thoughts  crossed  his  mind,  and  one  of 
the  songs  Leona  used  to  sing  to  him  after  his  hunting 


COUNT   RODOLPH's    HEIR.  61 

excursions,  seemed  to  ring  in  his  ear.  lie  turned, 
and  slowly  descended,  while  the  gathering  shades 
of  evening  warned  him  to  lose  no  time  in  reaching 
Lindensberg.  As  he  at  length  approached  the  castle, 
he  perceived  a  confused  group  waiting  to  receive  him. 
Caspar,  his  favorite  follower,  advanced. 

**  My  lord  count,"  said  he,  "  I  am  the  bearer  of 
evil  news.  Thy  lady  liveth,  but  she  hath  been  sorely 
terrified ;  there  hath  been  born  an  heir  to  Lindens- 
berg,  but  already  he  is  no  more! " 

*' What  terrified  the  Lady  Adelaide  ?  "  asked  Ro- 
dolph,  with  forced  calmness. 

*'  My  lord,  you  may  remember,  on  the  wedding- 
day,  when  the  attendants  of  the  Lady  Adelaide  were 
sent  to  the  gallery  of  the  chapel  to  search  for  the 
Garland  of  Death,  —  they  found  it  not,  nor  hath  it 
ever  been  explained  how  it  was  conveyed  away,  since 
none  in  the  castle  laid  hands  on  it.  But,  on  that  day, 
my  lord,  and  at  the  time  of  their  search,  three  faint 
blasts  of  a  hunting-bugle  were  blown,  and  —  " 

"Enough,"  sternly  shouted  Rodolph;  "what  hath 
this  to  do  with  to-day's  misfortune?" 

"  My  lord,  the  Lady  Adelaide  was  in  grievous 
pain,  and  fearing  to  die  before  your  return,  when  we 
heard  the  welcome  sound  of  your  returning  signal. 
But  scarcely  had  a  smile  passed  over  her  lips  at  a  few 
congratulating  and  comforting  words  spoken  by  her 
women,  when  we  heard  three  blasts,  as  on  that  day 
in  the  chapel  gallery ;  the  women  shrieked,  and  the 
Lady  Adelaide  spoke  not.  Only  when  the  evening 
closed  in,  and  still  you  appeared  not,  she  bowed  her 
head  and  murmured,  'It  is  for  him,  then;  for  my 
good  and  noble  Rodolph,  that  the  signal  of  death  is 
sent !  O  !  rather  for  my  little  one,  dear  as  he  is  !  — 
rather,  far  rather,  for  me!'  And  as  she  spoke,  the 
infant  gave  a  wailing  cry,  and  died  1  " 


b^  COUNT   RODOLPH's    HEIK 

''  Fool !  loitering  fool,  not  to  come  home,  instead 
of  seeking  the  ruined  tower,"  thought  Rodolph,  as 
he  slowly  sought  the  chamber  of  his  wife.  And 
though  in  his  own  secret  soul  a  lingering  superstition 
might  be  found,  he  resolved  to  cheer  the  Lady- 
Adelaide  by  telling  her  the  truth,  and  soliciting  her 
forgiveness. 

"  This  girl,  whom  I  once  loved,"  said  he,  after  he 
had  explained  his  early  history  to  the  shrinking  Ad- 
elaide, "  was  in  the  habit  of  answering  my  hunting 
signal.  It  was  she  who,  in  her  jealousy  and  anger, 
flung  down  the  garland  thou  hast  deemed  of  such 
evil  omen;  and  doubtless,  after  we  had  left  the 
chapel,  she  reclaimed  the  gift  and  departed,  sound- 
inop  the  bugle  from  the  distant  hill,  in  order  to  excite 
regret  and  pity  in  my  mind.  She  is  a  wayward  thing 
—  nay,  I  fear,  crazed  by  her  misery;  and  I  have 
thought  it  better  to  tell  thee  this,  because  that  bugle- 
horn  may  sound  again ;  and  I  would  not  that  thou 
shouldst  be  a  slave  to  such  terrors." 

Adelaide  pressed  her  husband's  hand,  and  sighed 
deeply.     Rodolph  spoke  again  — 

''  Sigh  not  for  thy  little  one,  but  look  forward  with 
hope  to  the  future ;  nor  deem  the  death  of  so  weak 
a  blossom  the  result  of  supernatural  agency," 

''I  sigh  not  for  my  child,"  said  Adelaide;  and 
she  drew  her  faint  hand  away,  and  moaned  as  though 
with  pain. 


Perhaps,  of  all  who  inhabited  the  castle.  Count 
Rodolph  himself  was  the  most  wretched  after  this 
explanation.  He  recalled  Leona's  words,  that  ^'  she 
VJdiS  waiting  for  the  heir;"  he  shuddered  as  he  re^ 
membered  hor  gliding  form  between  the  ruined  stair 
and  the  hall ;  and  it  struck  him  as  strange  and  omi-* 


COUNT   RODOLPH's    HEIR.  63 

sious,  that  she  never  answered  his  signal  except  when 
he  sounded  the  horn  from  that  one  spot  by  the  tor- 
rent's side.  At  other  times  he  felt  that  she  was  in- 
deed his  unhappy  Leona;  and  a  feverish  desire  to 
discover  how  far  this  one  ray  of  recollection  illumined 
that  benighted  mind,  oppressed  and  tortured  him. 
At  length  a  plan  suggested  itself,  which  he  resolved 
to  adopt.  He  obser^ied  the  time  which  his  ride  from 
the  torrent  to  the  ruin  generally  occupied,  and  desired 
Caspar  to  remain  by  the  torrent  for  that  period,  and 
then  to  sound  the  hunting-bugle  three  times,  while 
he  himself  rode  to  the  hill,  and  watched  the  effect  on 
Leona.  But  the  experiment  was  only  attended  with 
fresh  bitterness.  For  a  few  moments,  indeed,  the 
deserted  girl  seemed  to  recover  her  memory  and 
reason:  she  started  up  on  hearing  the  signal,  and  ex- 
claiming, in  a  tone  of  joyful  tenderness,  "  Rodolph  ! 
dear  Rodolph !  "  returned  the  expected  answer,  and 
smiled  to  hear  the  echo  float  over  the  hill.  But  then 
her  countenance  fell ;  tears  gathered  in  her  large 
black  eyes,  and  she  moaned  and  wept,  repeating  at 
intervals  the  single  sentence,  "Why  hast  thou  for- 
saken me,  beloved  ?  "  In  vain  Rodolph  addressed  her  ; 
she  answered  him  indeed,  but  it  was  as  a  stranger ; 
and  he  relinquished  the  painful  experiment,  satisfying 
himself  with  ordering  his  tenantry  in  the  nearest  vil- 
lage to  supply  the  crazed  being  with  all  the  necessa- 
ries and  comforts  of  life,  and  never,  on  any  pretext, 
to  approach  the  castle  —  a  command  which  the  su- 
perstitious fears  of  the  ignorant  peasantry  rendered 
superfluous. 

Again  the  Lady  Adelaide  made  Rodolph  a  father. 
The  babe  was  strong  and  beautiful ;  and,  as  she 
watched  its  growth,  the  mother  of  the  heir  of  Lindens- 
berg  smiled  at  her  own  past  fears.  The  count,  too, 
became  passionately  fond  of  his  infant  son,  and  the 


64 


COUNT   RODOLPK'S    HEIS. 


misery  of  Leona's  situation  preyed  less  constantly  cm 
his  spirits  than  heretofore. 

The  fatal  day  came,  nevertheless,  which  was  to  de- 
prive them  of  this  object  of  mutual  tenderness.  Ther 
German  nurse  returned  not  with  her  charge  at  th© 
usual  hour;  and,  after  days  of  ag;onizing  suspense  and 
search,  the  body  of  the  woman  was  found  drowned  in 
the  pool  beneath  the  torrent,  into  which  she  must  have 
fallen.  No  trace  of  the  infant  could  be  discovered, 
except  the  silken  mantle  which  it  had  worn ;  and  the 
dark  whirlpool  was  unsearchable  and  unfathomable. 

It  would  be  vain  to  attempt  describing  the  effect  of 
this  blow  on  the  mother  of  the  lost  child.  She  sank 
under  it,  gradually  indeed,  but  securely;  and  all  the 
superstition  of  fear  returned  to  her  mind.  She  would 
not  at  first  believe  that  it  was  dead;  continually  in- 
sisting upon  seeing  the  body,  and  starting  at  every 
unusual  sound,  as  though  she  deemed  it  the  herald  of 
intelligence  respecting  the  fate  of  her  beloved  infant. 
At  length  a  low,  nervous  fever  reduced  her  to  a  state 
of  weakness,  both  of  body  and  mind,  which  it  was 
painful  to  see ;  and  Rodolph  availed  himself  of  this 
opportunity,  when  she  could  not  leave  her  chamber, 
to  pretend  that  the  body  of  the  young  heir  had  been 
found,  and  interred  in  the  chapel.  A  marble  monu- 
ment was  placed  there ;  and,  on  the  recovery  of  the 
unhappy  Adelaide,  she  was  led  to  weep  over  the 
empty  tomb. 

But  for  Rodolph  there  was  not  even  the  melan- 
choly satisfaction  of  believing  his  little  son  interred, 
where  he  might  from  time  to  time  visit  him,  and  in- 
dulge his  grief.  To  him  was  ever  present  the  struggle 
of  the  helpless  woman,  and  the  whelming  waters  which 
had  closed  alike  over  her  and  hm  child  :  to  him  was 
ever  present  the  haunting  doubt  of  Leona's  double 
existence. 


COUNT   RODOLPH's    HEIR.  OS 

Threx5  years  rolled  away,  and  Rodolph  had  never 
joined  his  companions  in  the  chase,  nor  ever  sound- 
ed the  bugle  whose  eternal  answer  wrung  his  heart, 
Caspar  brought,  from  time  to  time,  the  intelligence 
that  Leona  came  at  regular  intervals  to  the  scattered 
village  nearest  the  Hill  of  the  Ruined  Tower,  for  fruit, 
meal,  chestnuts,  and  other  necessaries — -that  she  ac- 
cepted silently  what  was  offered  her,  and  seemed 
greatly  pleased  at  a  present  of  two  goats,  which  one 
of  the  peasants  gave  her,  and  which  she  had  since  kept 
in  the  grass-grown  court  of  the  old  castle.  If  ques- 
tioned, she  became  restless  and  suspicious  in  manner, 
and  sometimes  answered  with  a  fierce  haughtiness ; 
but,  for  the  most  part,  she  departed  when  spoken  to, 
and  ran  swiftly  towards  the  hill,  looking  back,  from 
time  to  time,  as  if  fearful  of  being  pursued. 

Meanwhile  a  new  misfortune  visited  Count  Ro- 
dolph ;  the  Lady  Adelaide  died,  a  prey  to  regret  and 
nervous  depression.  He  mourned  for  her  with  sin- 
cerity ;  nor  was  his  sorrow  untinged  by  remorse,  when 
he  reflected  on  the  strange  circumstances  which  had 
shortened  her  existence.  The  Lord  Ulric  of  Lin- 
densberg,  his  uncle,  vehemently  reproached  him  for 
having  suffered  "that  Italian  witch"  to  remain  on 
the  territory,  lamented  the  untimely  decease  of  the 
rich  Lady  Adelaide,  and  tormented  himself  and  his 
nephew  with  calculations  to  bring  about  a  second 
union  for  Rodolph,  with  Gertrude  von  Ringhen,  her 
cousin,  who  would  now  inherit.  But  far  other  were 
the  schemes  of  Count  Rodolph.  To  quit  Lindens- 
berg,  and  carry  the  distracted  Leona  to  her  native 
land,  and  there,  by  the  most  soothing  attentions,  and 
the  advice  of  skilful  physicians,  to  restore  her  to 
health  and  to  reason ;  to  visit  old  scenes  with  her, 
and  endeavor  to  renew  the  broken  links  of  memory , 
5 


66 


COUNT  PvODOLPH'S   HEIR. 


—  these  were  the  plans  which  now  formed  the  day- 
dreams of  the  widower. 

For  this  purpose  he  went  daily  to  the  ruined  tower, 
and  watched  and  called,  but  in  vain.  Leona  appeared 
not.  Burning  with  anxiety,  he  at  length  resolved  to 
await  her  at  one  of  the  huts,  the  outskirts  of  the 
hamlet,  where  she  was  wont  to  come  for  food  ;  but 
the  moment  she  perceived  him  approaching  her,  she 
fled  precipitately.  He  pursued  and  overtook  her ; 
when  she  paused,  and  turning  her  pale  face  full  upon 
him,  she  said  mournfully,  "  What  wouldst  thou  with 
me,  dark  stranger  ?  And  wherefore  in  Rodolph's  ab- 
sence dost  thou  steal  upon  me  thus?" 

"  Rodolph  is  here,  and  loves  thee,  and  is  free,  be- 
loved Leona!"  murmured  the  unhappy  man,  as  she 
again  moved  onwards.  Leona  made  no  reply ;  and 
side  by  side  they  toiled  together  up  the  steep  ascent 
which  led  immediately  to  the  castle;  the  slant  beams 
of  evening  streamed  through  the  broken  arches,  and 
gave  a  vivid  and  supernatural  light  and  shadow  to  the 
mouldering  building.  "  It  is  the  hour  he  should  re- 
turn," said  Leona;  "  but  I  hear  not  the  horn."  This 
hint  was  not  lost  on  Rodolph ;  and  at  the  same  hour 
on  the  succeeding  evening,  having  stationed  Caspar 
on  the  fatal  spot  which  he  himself  had  never  revisited, 
he  sought  the  retreat  of  Leona.  She  was  tending 
the  two  solitary  goats  in  the  inner  court  of  the  castle, 
and  having  fastened  them  to  the  root  of  a  larch  tree, 
which  had  crept  through  a  fissure  in  the  wall,  she  sate 
down  on  a  block  of  stone,  apparently  faint  and  fa- 
tigued, when  the  blast  of  the  hunter's  horn  pealed 
over  the  echoing  hills.  Instantly  she  started  up ;  a 
wild  expression  of  pleasure  and  tenderness  overspread 
her  attenuated  features;  and  lifting  the  ivory  bugle 
to  her  lips,  she  exclaimed,  "I  hear  thee  Rodolph;  I 
bless  thee!  I  welcome  thee!'' 


COUNT    RODOLPH's    HEIR.  67 

Alas !  he  that  was  so  beloved,  even  in  madness, 
stood  by,  unblest,  unwelcomed,  chilled  and  agonized, 
cursing  his  fate  and  hers ! 

He  attempted  not  to  converse  with  her ;  he  at- 
tempted not  to  detain  her,  as  she  passed  him  up  the 
ruined  staircase;  he  gazed  not  after  her.  Utterly 
broken,  and  bowed  in  spirit,  he  hid  his  face  in  his 
bands,  and  wept.  The  tears  of  a  man  are  painful. 
Rodolph  conquered  the  weakness,  and  leaning  his 
head  back  on  the  broken  step  above  him,  and  lifting 
his  gaze  to  the  soft  evening  sky,  he  indulged  in  a  rev- 
erie, as  to  the  possibility  of  bringing  from  Rome  a 
physician  who  had  been  acquainted  with  Leona  from 
her  childhood,  and  who,  from  his  knowledge  of  her  con- 
stitution, might  yet,  perhaps,  restore  her  to  reason. 

So  deep  was  Count  Rodolph's  reverie,  that  he  per- 
ceived not  its  object  stealing  down  the  broken  flight 
of  steps,  till  she  had  approached  the  one  above  that 
on  which  his  head  rested.  She  stooped;  she  gazed 
into  his  startled  eyes;  and  O!  the  thrill  of  hope  and 
expectation  that  swelled  the  heart  and  quickened  the 
pulse  of  the  inconstant  lover,  when  she  murmured 
close  to  his  ear,  "  Rodolph !  it  is  late,  and  thou  art 
weary ! " 

"  She  knows  me  at  length,"  thought  he  ;  "  we  shall 
yet  be  happy  !  "  Then,  turning  to  her,  and  taking  her 
unresisting  hand,  he  murmured,  "  I  am  indeed  weary 
—  sing  to  me,  Leona !  "  —  And  she  sang.  Her  haunt- 
ing voice  rang  in  his  ear  as  it  had  done  long  years 
ago ;  and  when,  oppressed  by  the  recollection,  his 
bosom  heaved,  and  his  breath  came  gaspingly,  she 
seemed  to  think  he  slumbered,  and  lowered  the  mod- 
ulated tones  to  a  gentle,  murmuring  harmony.  Her 
arm  stole  beneath  his  head ;  he  dared  not  open  his 
heavy  eyes,  lest  the  illusion  should  be  broken ;  but 
he  felt  her  breath  warm  on  his  cheek,  and  he  knew 


68 


COUNT   RODOLPH'S    HEIK. 


that  she  bent  over  him,  and  watched  him,  as  in  by- 
gone days.  Dimly  from  beneath  his  own  quivering 
lashes,  he  perceived  her  dark,  loving  eyes  fixed  upon 
him ;   and  his  heart  ached  with  excess  of  hope. 

Suddenly  she  rose ;  she  grasped  his  arm  with  un- 
natural strength.  "  Of  what  wert  thou  dreaming  7  " 
said  she,  in  a  tone  of  passionate  jealousy. 

"  I  dreamed  not ;  I  slept  not.     Beloved,  hear  me !  " 
'*  Thou   didst  —  thy  dream  was  of  Adelaide  von 
Ringhen  !  "  shouted  the  unhappy  girl.     Then,  kneel- 
ing, with  her  head  on  his  knees,  she  murmured, 
"  Forsake  me  not !     Rodolph,  forsake  me  not !  " 
With  bitter  agony  he  strove  to  make  her  compre- 
hend him,  but  in  vain;  the  ray  was  quenched,  and 
when  he  attempted  to  detain  her,  she  looked  wildly  on 
him,  and  disengaging  her  hands,  with  a  shrill  scream 
she  flev/  up  the  staircase,  and  in  the  dim,  uncertain 
light,  appeared,  after  a  moment's  pause,  to  flit  across 
the  empty  space  into  the  arch  beyond. 

Count  Rodolph  departed.  He  sought  the  southern 
sky  of  Italy ;  he  wandered  in  scenes  familiar  to  him 
in  youth ;  a  heavy  sickness  fell  on  him,  and  months 
passed  away  ere  he  was  sufficiently  strong  to  resume 
his  journey.  The  physician  on  whose  skill  he  had 
depended  to  cure  the  disease  under  which  his  once- 
loved  Leona  suffered,  was  in  Spain,  attending  a  case 
of  much  difficulty,  and  in  some  respects  similar,  since 
the  patient  was  afflicted  with  aberration  of  intellect, 
caused  by  a  sudden  shock.  A  messenger  was  de- 
spatched to  Spain,  and  brought  for  answer,  that  a  year, 
at  least,  must  expire  before  the  dottore  could  leave  his 
present  patient.  That  year  and  part  of  the  next  were 
passed  by  Count  Rodolph  in  wandering  from  place 
to  place,  without  any  aim  except  a  restless  desire  of 
change.  At  If'ngth  he  received  the  welcome  intima- 
tion, that  he  might  meet  the  dottore  at  Rome,  and 


COUNT    RODOLFIl's    HEIR.  69 

thence  proceed  on  their  journey  together.  He  was 
informed  of  the  successful  termination  of  the  case 
which  had  been  the  cause  of  the  delay,  and  once 
more  hope  entered  into  his  heart  and  abode  there. 

On  his  arrival  at  Lindensberg,  the  faithful  Caspar 
gave  but  a  melancholy  account  of  the  poor  crazed 
being  in  whom  he  was  so  deeply  interested.  He  de- 
scribed her  as  more  distracted  than  ever;  coming 
frequently  to  the  hamlet,  and  desiring  velvets  of  light 
and  rich  colors  to  be  sent  for,  which  was  complied 
with ;  and  yet  she  never  appeared  in  any  other  cos- 
tume than  the  black  hunting-dress.  She  had  also 
latterly  become  most  sad  and  dispirited ;  weeping  bit- 
terly, and  believing  herself  to  be  in  attendance  on  some 
sick  or  dying  person,  for  whom  she  ordered  medi- 
cines, and  chose  the  most  tempting  fruit,  ail  which 
was  procured  and  executed  for  her  in  compliance  with 
the  count's  parting  orders.  Rodolph's  heart  sank ; 
but  the  physician  bade  him  to  be  of  good  cheer, 
for  that  this  new  delirium  showed  the  disorder  to  be 
coming  to  a  crisis.  It  was  agreed  between  them,  that 
the  dottore  should  meet  the  poor  maniac  in  the  ham- 
let, and  endeavor  to  make  her  comprehend  who  he 
was,  and  his  desire  to  be  of  service  to  the  sick  person 
she  attended;  and  that  Rodolph  should  await  them 
at  the  ruined  tower.  Contrary  to  all  expectation, 
Leona  no  sooner  saw  the  physician,  than  she  recog- 
nized him ;  and  falling  at  his  feet,  she  kissed  his 
hands  repeatedly,  weeping,  and  inquiring  into  the 
circumstances  of  her  mother's  death,  and  alluding  to 
scenes  and  people  mutually  familiar  to  both. 

"  There  is  hope,"  said  the  dottore  to  himself,  as  he 
soothed  and  answered  her.  Then,  suddenly  changing 
her  manner,  she  eagerly  asked  his  advice  respecting 
the  sick  person  she  was  in  imaginary  attendance  upon, 
saying  he  had  a  fever,  and  was  weakly,  and  she  feared 


70 


COUNT   RODOLPH  S   HEIR. 


he  would  sink  under  it.  She  hesitated,  and  appeared 
restless,  when  he  offered  to  visit  the  invalid  •  but  at 
length  she  nodded  her  head  in  token  of  assent. 

Rodolph  sate  by  the  broken  staircase  awaiting  their 
arrival  in  an  agony  of  anxiety.  He  desired  ardently 
to  behold  the  effect  of  the  signal,  after  the  lapse  of 
time  during  which  he  had  been  absent,  and  that  the 
dottore  likewise  should  witness  the  only  symptom  of 
recollection  which  had  hitherto  been  given  by  the  un- 
happy Leona. 

To  this  end  he  had  ordered  Caspar  to  remain  by  the 
torrent,  and  when  a  messenger  from  the  hamlet  should 
give  him  notice  of  Leona's  return  homewards,  to  blow 
three  blasts,  as  usual,  on  the  hunting-bugle. 

¥/hen  Leona  perceived  Rodolph,  a  faint  smile  of 
puzzled  recognition  stole  over  her  wan  features. 
She  paused  and  hesitated;  at  length  she  said,  "It  is 
long  since  we  have  met,  noble  stranger,  and  I  can 
hardly  now  give  you  welcome,  for  Rodolph  is  still 
absent,  and  I  am  much  troubled  because  of  the  sick- 
ness of  one  I  love;  nevertheless But  come  on^ 

dear  friend;  why  loiter  we?"  said  she  to  the  physi 
cian,  with  a  sudden  change  of  tone  ;  "  perhaps  even 
now  he  dies  !  " 

So  saying,  she  swiftly  ascended  the  flight  of  steps. 
When  she  reached  the  summit,  she  knelt  down,  and, 
lifting  up  a  stone,  drew  from  beneath  it  a  coil  of 
rope  ;  this  she  wound  patiently  round,  till  a  shattered 
plank  which  hung  unperceived  under  the  arch  oppo- 
site, gray  as  the  walls,  and  like  them  moss-grown  and 
mouldering,  was  sufficiently  raised  to  enable  her,  by 
a  small  exertion  of  strength,  to  lift  the  end  and  rest  it 
on  the  last  step. 

"Great  Heaven!"  said  Rodolph,  shuddering^  "is 
she  about  to  cross  on  that  plank  ?  " 

''Hush  !  "  said  the  physician. 


COUNT    RODOLPh's    HEIR.  71 

*'  This  is  my  drawbridge,"  said  Leona,  smilinf^ 
with  a  sort  of  triumph  at  the  dottorc,  and  without 
noticing  the  question  of  Rodolph.  Then,  laying  her 
hand  on  his  arm,  she  added  earnestly,  "  Once  it 
cracked  beneath  me  —  once,  when  I  was  carrying 
him  across.     But  I  never  brought  him    out    again." 

*'  He  who  is  now  sick?"  said  the  physician,  in  the 
voice  of  a  person  who  humors  a  child  in  some 
folly. 

*'  Yes,"  answered  Leona,  sighing,  *'  he  is  very 
sick."  Then,  stooping  toward  the  dottore^  she  add- 
ed, in  a  tone  of  great  importance,  ''He  is  the  heir 
to  Lindensberg." 

It  was  with  a  cold,  shuddering  regret  that  Rodolph 
heard  this  explanation  of  the  illusion  that  possessed 
her.  "  The  heir  to  Lindensberg  is  dead,  Leona," 
said  he,  mournfully.     The    maniac  shook  her  head. 

"The  woman  died,"  answered  she;  "  she  fled,  and 
fell  into  the  dark  waters;  /  took  /aV/?,  but  could  not 
kill  him,  although  I  know  he  is  my  enemy ! " 

It  was  well  for  Rodolph,  that  the  dizzy  stupefac- 
tion which  came  over  him  at  these  v/ords,  prevented 
all  evidence  of  emotion  on  his  part. 

"  Well,  Leona,  I  cannot  cure  him  unless  I  see  him," 
said  the  physician,  in  a  composed  tone;  and,  as  he 
spoke,  he  laid  his  hand  heavily  on  Rodolph's  shoulder. 
Leona  crossed  the  narrow,  quivering  plank,  and  disap- 
peared beneath  the  archway. 

''Think  you  this  is  true?  O  God!  think  you  it  is 
true?"  murmured  Rodolph. 

"  It  may  be,"  said  his  friend ;  "  or  the  unhappy 
woman  may  have  heard  broken  snatches  of  the  story 
from  the  peasantry  who  supply  her  with  food,  and  so 
have  grown  to  imagine  herself  an  actor  in  the  events 
she  has  heard  related.  This  is  not  an  uncommon 
eymptom  of  madness ;   but,  true  or  visionary,  a  word 


72 


COUNT  kodolph's  heir. 


from  you  is  fatal.  Speak  not,  move  not ;  and  perhaps 
yoQ  may  regain  at  once  Leona  and  your  son." 

Rodolph  groanedy  and  hid  his  face.  There  was  a 
long  pause. 

"  She  mocks  us,  or  she  hath  forgotten,'^  said  the 
unhappy  man  at  length,  raising  his  haggard  eyes  to 
his  friend's  countenance.  The  daitore  motioned  for 
silence. 

"  Leona,"  said  he,  in  a  loud,  clear  tone,  "I  have 
other  patients  to  visit: —  is  the  boy  there? " 

"I  do  but  adjust  his  mantle,"  was  the  reply;  and 
suddenly  there  appeared  in  the  archway,  as  in  a  framed 
picture,  two  living  figures;  Leona,  and  a  child  of  six 
or  seven  years  of  age,  tall,  pale,  and  meagre,  with 
long,  silky,  brown  hair,  curling  down  to  his  waist; 
and  large,  blue  eyes,  that  seemed  painfully  dazzled 
even  by  the  mellow  light  of  the  evening.  His  exces- 
sive paleness  was  rendered  yet  more  apparent  by  the 
varied  brilliancy  of  the  colors  which  composed  hi:s 
dress,  a  scarlet  velvet  mantle  being  fastened  on  a 
suit  of  glowing  purple,  trimmed  with  white  miniver, 
and  a  small  cap  of  emerald  green,  embroidered  witifi 
pearls,  set  on  his  head.  His  cheeks  were  hollow, 
and  his  lips  looked  as  though  they  had  never  learned 
to  smile,  so  wan,  and  stiff,  and  feverish,  did  they  ap- 
pear. He  leaned  against  his  companion  for  support, 
and  one  thin  little  white  hand  clung  to  the  folds  of  her 
drapery.  At  the  unusual  sound  of  a  strange  voice  he 
started,  and  as  his  unaccustomed  eyes  sought  to  dis- 
tinguish objects,  and  beheld  the  count  and  his  friend, 
a  faint  shriek  of  terror  escaped  him. 

"'  Hush,"  said  Leona,  soothingly  ;  *'  be  not  terrified, 
and  thou  shalt  soon  see  Rodolph ;  "  and  the  child's 
wan  lips  moved,  and  he  repeated  with  the  exactitude 
of  tone,  and  the  faint  sadness  of  an  echo,  "  Rodolph !  " 

She  lifted  him  in  her  armSj  and  smiling  sadiy  ai 


COUNT    RODOLPH's    HEIR.  73 

the  physician,  she  said,  *'  Shall  I  bring  him  to  thee, 
or  will  the  cold  air  hurt  him? " 

**  Bring  him,"  calmly  replied  the  physician,  as  he 
measured  with  his  eye  the  strength  of  the  plank,  and 
the  additional  weight  it  would  sustain  in  the  passage 
of  the  attenuated  and  frail  little  being,  so  miraculous- 
ly preserved.  Lightly  and  steadily  Leona  advanced, 
while  Rodolph's  outstretched  arms  seemed  already 
nearly  to  clutch  his  long  lost  child.  She  had 
reached  the  centre,  when  suddenly  Caspar  blew  the 
three  blasts  on  the  signal-horn,  Leona  paused  ;  the 
blood  rushed  to  her  colorless  cheek,  the  light  to  her 
sunken  eye. 

"  I  hear  thee,  Rodolph  !  "  exclaimed  she ;  and  press- 
ing the  pale  child  closely  to  her  heart,  she  raised  the 
ivory  bugle  to  her  faded  lips. 

There  was  a  crash  —  a  wild  cry  —  and  all  was 
over. 

Rodolph  and  the  physician  gazed  on  the  archway. 
Where  was  the  maniac,  and  the  pale  child  with  its 
silken  hair?  Where  was  the  frail  plank  which  stood 
between  them  and  that  living  tomb,  wherein  his  little 
son  had  so  long  been  buried?  What  had  gone  down 
into  that  dark  abyss  ? 

Rodolph  and  the  physician  descended  the  broken 
stairs  slowly,  quietly,  stupidly :  to  what  purpose 
should  they  hurry  their  pace  ?  A  dock  grew  on  the 
last  step  but  one ;  the  physician  switched  it  with  his 
cane:  it  was  a  rank  weed,  unsightly,  and  the  impulse 
was  to  destroy  it:  he  had  not  observed  it  as  he  ascend- 
ed. They  came  to  the  end  of  the  broken  flight  of 
steps,  and  stood  in  the  court  below.  Something  lay 
close  to  the  dottore's  feet :  he  looked  down ;  it  was 
a  little,  pale  corpse,  in  a  gaudy  dress. 

'*  In  a  fall  from  a  very  great  height,"  said  he,  speak- 
ing very  slowly,  and  glancing  upwards,  *'  the  subject 


COUNT   RODOLPH^S    HEIR. 


generally  dies  from  suffocation  before  the  ground  is 
touched ;  it  is  not,  therefore,  commonly,  a  death  of 
pain." 

Count  Rodolph  groaned,  and  pressed  the  hand  of 
his  friend.  A  little  beyond  lay  the  maniac  Leona. 
She  still  breathed  ;  and,  as  Rodolph  approached,  she 
opened  her  large,  dark  eyes,  as  if  instinctively  aware 
of  his  presence. 

"  Rodolph,  beloved,"  said  she,  "  I  have  been  dream- 
ing a  dreadful  dream.  Even  now,  methinks,  I  suffer 
pain  —  I  cannot  rise ;  the  cold  has  struck  my  limbs 
with  a  numbing  pain ;  thou  shouldst  not  have  allowed 
me  to  slumber  in  the  open  air.  I  dreamed  (alas! 
what  torturing  pain  I  suffer  !)  that  thou  didst  forsake 
me  for  another  —  that  thou  wert  wedded  —  that  there 
was  an  heir  to  Lindensberg.  O,  rather  than  sa 
dream  again,  I  would  wish  to  die  now,  on  thy  bosom." 
And  she  flung  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  moaned„ 
and  a  slight  shivering  ran  through  her  limbs.  Her 
eyes,  which  had  been  gazing  in  his  face,  closed  sud- 
denly.—  She  was  dead. 

***** 

"We  are  apt,"  said  the  old  physician,  when  re- 
turning with  Count  Rodolph  from  one  of  his  annual 
visits  to  Leona's  tomb,  —  "  we  are  apt  to  pity  people 
for  dying,  and  for  the  manner  of  their  death,  as 
though  it  were  the  crowning  agony  of  nature ;  yet 
there  may  have  been  hours  of  unendurable  misery  in 
a  man's  life,  to  which  his  death  may  seem  like  a 
pleasant  dream.  Which,  think  you,  was  the  bitterer 
hour  to  her  who  now  rests  in  peace  —  that  in  which, 
bruised  and  dying,  but  with  her  arms  twined  round 
thy  neck,  she  imagined  herself  waking  from  a  slum- 
ber in  the  cold  autumn  wind,  or  that  in  which  she 
first  answered  the  blast  of  thy  hunting-bugle^  after 
thy  confession  of  intended  separation?" 


THE    PARTING    KISS. 


THE   PARTING    KISS. 

*'  His  act  did  not  o'ertake  his  bad  intent, 
And  therefore  must  be  buried  as  an  intent 
That  perished  by  the  way."  —  Shakspeare. 

TifE  driver  sounded  his  horn^  and  in  one  hour 
more  I  was  to  depart  in  the  stage  for  my  native  state. 
The  idea  of  revisiting  the  home  of  my  childhood, 
of  meeting  with  my  brothers  and  sisters,  and  behold- 
ing, once  mere,  my  aged  parents,  before  the  grave 
should  hide  them  forever  from  my  view,  filled  me 
with  rapture  which  I  never  had  experienced  before. 
Already  transported  in  imagination  over  the  long 
Journey,  I  received  the  joyous  welcome  of  the  happy 
family.  My  good  old  father  met  me  at  the  gate  with 
the  kindest  demonstrations  of  affection;  my  moth- 
er, now  feeble  with  years,  and  trembling  with  afflic- 
tion, tottered  half  way  down  the  steps  to  grasp  my 
hand,  and  unable  to  restrain  her  feelings,  burst  into 
tears,  whilst  my  little  serious  sister  Clara  ran  to  my 
arms,  and  folding  hers  about  my  neck,  could  not  re- 
frain, even  in  the  midst  of  her  gladness,  from  affec- 
tionately chiding  me  for  not  answering  her  letters. 
Blessed  little  sister!  I  kissed  her  pretty  black  eye, 
and  promised  to  do  better  in  future ;  and  there  was  a 
Joy  —  ay,  a  rapture  —  even  in  this  reverie  of  imagina- 
tion, which,  if  it  could  but  last,  I  would  not  barter 
for  the  wide  world's  wealth,  and  all  its  honors  be- 
sides. 

But  every  bliss  has  its  bane.  The  reflection  that  I 
Siad  to  part  with  Fanny  Morrison,  whom  I  had  so 
mfacii  loved,  even  unto  adoration,  soon  put  an  end  to 
this  glow  of  happy  feeling,  and  spread  in  my  heart  a 
coorrespondiiig  poignancy  of  misery.     This  is  the  na- 


?G 


PAHTING   K1S3. 


ture  of  happiness.  There  is  not  a  glad  em<?don  of 
the  breast  which  is  not  quickly  chased  by  some  ob* 
trusive  care.  The  visits  of  Joy  are  as  short  as  those 
of  the  votaries  of  fashionable  life ;  and  the  bosom 
that  is  elated  by  her  transitory  presence  will  assured- 
ly experience  an  equal  depression  at  her  departure. 
Her  smiles  are  like  the  vivid  flashes  of  lightning  that 
play  upon  the  brown  cheek  of  night,  but  vanish  in  an 
instant,  and  leave  behind  fourfold  darkness.  I  thought 
of  home,  and  my  soul  expanded;  I  thought  of  Fanny  „ 
and  it  sank  in  dejection.  I  loved  this  fair  and  excel- 
lent creature,  not  that  the  beauty  of  her  whole  sex 
seemed  epitomized  in  her  form  and  face,  but  more 
for  the  higher  brilliancy  of  her  polished  mind ;  and 
above  all,  because  of  her  unsophisticated  purity  of 
heart.  My  love  was  reciprocated.  Daily  we  renewed 
our  vows  of  perpetual  constancy,  and  the  green-eyed 
monster.  Jealousy,  never  sullied  our  minds  or  dis- 
turbed our  repose ;  but,  mutually  confiding,  we  en- 
joyed all  the  luxury  of  tenderest  affection,  unmixed 
with  the  bitterness  of  doubt  and  distrust;  and  if  there 
be  such  as  positive  happiness  on  earth,  "  it  is  this,  it 
is  a  thing."  From  my  first  acquaintance  with  Fanny, 
I  had  never  been  separated  from  her  even  for  a  week 
at  a  time :  to  part  with  her  now,  and  possibly  forever 
" — it  seemed  like  death, 

I  had  already  taken  leave  of  her  on  the  evening  of 
the  preceding  day  ;  but  now  that  I  was  about  to  enter 
upon  my  journey  almost  immediately,  I  could  nc^t  re- 
sist the  inclination,  Vv^hich  increased  in  ardor  as  the 
time  of  departure  drew  nearer,  once  more  to  seize 
the  fair,  soft  hand,  and  say,  ''Good by."  I  hastened 
to  her  dwelling.  She  was  at  her  piano,  playing  the 
plaintive  air  of  "  Boi/s  Wife"  the  very  tune  which 
of  all  others  I  most  delighted  to  hear ;  and  she  could 
play,  tooj  with  such  enchanting  skill  —  so  touching  ta 


THE    PARTING   K1S8.  77 

the  heart!  As  I  entered  the  room,  she  ceased  the 
music,  but  quickly  resumed  it  at  my  request,  and  ac- 
companied the  instrument  with  a  voice  that  breathed 
all  the  magic  harmony  of  Nourhamal.     She  sang, 

"  Fare  thee  well,  since  thou  must  leave  me  ;  ' 

But  O,  let  not  our  parting  grieve  thee, 
For  I  will  still  be  thine,  believe  me." 

And  there  was  an  applicability  in  these  words  to 
my  situation,  such  a  suitableness  of  sentiment  to  the 
occasion,  that  made  them  sink  deep  into  my  burning 
heart;  and  although  1  cannot  say  that  the  music,  like 
St.  Cecilia's,  '*  drew  an  angel  down,"  I  will  say  that 
she  sang  like  an  angel,  and  wore  all  the  celestial  love 
liness  of  one.  Could  the  song  never  close,  and  her 
beauty  never  die,  who  would  ask  for  a  brighter 
heaven  f 

As  she  finished  the  strain,  she  closed  the  lid  of  the 
piano,  and  turning  her  beautiful  face,  with  "  bonny 
blue  eyes,"  upon  me,  she  said,  "I  now  have  a  task  for 
you  to  perform."  "And  what  is  that  task?"  I  in- 
quired.  *'  It  is,"  said  she,  "  a  compliance  with  your 
promise,  made  a  long  time  ago,  to, write  an  original 
piece  in  my  album ;  the  evening  is  favorable  for 
poetry,  and  I  insist  upon  your  writing."  At  first  I 
thought  this  was  merely  intended  to  divert  my  mind 
from  the  melancholy  which  she  perceived  was  gather-^ 
ing  around  it;  for  I  was  so  far  from  ever  being  guilty 
of  writing  poetry,  that  1  really  could  not  believe  for  a 
moment  that  she  seriously  thought  me  capable  of  such 
a  perpetration ;  but  in  a  ^qw  minutes  she  took  from 
the  book-case  a  neatly-bound  album,  and  spreading 
it  on  the  table  where  pen  and  ink  were  previously 
placed,  she  invited  me  to  the  task  with  an  air  of  so- 
lemnity, which  could  not  fail  to  convince  me  that  the 
request  was  made  more  in  earnest  than  through  eour- 


78 


THE   PARTING   KISS. 


tesy.  What  could  I  do?  I  had  not  the  heart  to  re- 
fuse, nor  the  genius  to  comply.  My  brain  was  as 
dry  as  '*  the  remainder  biscuit  after  a  voyage." 
Never  did  I  stand  so  much  in  need  of  mind,  or  deplore 
this  want  so  much,  as  on  this  occasion.  True,  the 
evening  was  serene  and  beautiful,  and  might  have 
warmed  the  breast  that  had  the  least  spark  of  poetical 
feeling  about  it ;  but  mine  had  no  dormant  energies 
of  this  nature  to  awaken,  and  neither  the  kindling 
influence  of  fine  weather,  nor  the  more  inspiring 
power  of  Fanny's  presence,  could  remove  my  con- 
stitutional inability  to  rhyme.  To  attempt  it,  I  knew 
very  well  that  the  failure  would  be  so  completely 
shameful  that  I  should  lose  much  of  her  esteem,  and 
yet  not  to  do  it,  must  inevitably  incur  her  most  seri- 
ous displeasure.  I  determined,  however,  to  risk  the 
attempt ;  and  seating  myself  by  the  table,  I  seized  the 
pen  in  despair,  dipped  it  in  the  stand,  and  turning  my 
<^yes  upwards,  but  not  in  "fine  frenzy  rolling,"  I 
began  cogitating  on  what  subject  I  should  fix  my  fan- 
ciful eftusion. 

I  had  remained  in  this  attitude  but  a  short  time, 
before  my  musings  appeared  to  be  unceremoniously 
interrupted.  The  whole  family  were  in  busy  uproar. 
The  servants  were  running  in  every  direction,  from 
room  to  room,  all  actively  engaged  in  cleaning  and 
decorating  the  mansion.  Some  were  hanging  new 
damask  curtains  over  the  windows,  some  regulating 
the  glasses  on  a  well-loaded  sideboard,  others  re- 
plenishing the  fiower-pots  with  water  and  fresh  roses, 
whilst  Fanny's  youngest  sister  was  fantastically  orna- 
menting a  pair  of  large  silver  candlesticks  with  paper 
leaves.  The  Turkey  carpet  was  removed,  and  the 
floor  dry  rubbed  :  indeed,  all  the  preparations  usually 
made  for  a  dancing  party  were  going  on,  and  appa- 
rently for  that  purpose.     Presently  a  servant  girl  en- 


THE    PARTING    KISS.  79 

tered  the  room  with  a  bundle  of  evergreens,  with 
which  she  commenced  decorating  the  mantel-piece, 
and  then  proceeded  to  a  large  mirror,  that  hung  on 
the  wall  opposite  to  me,  in  such  a  position  that  it  re- 
flected to  my  view  the  image  of  Fanny,  as  she  lay  re- 
clining on  the  sofa  in  a  thoughtful  and  pensive  man- 
ner. Her  countenance  is  frequently  tinged  with  a 
slight  melancholy ;  but  now  it  seemed  to  wear  a  deep 
gloom.  I  certainly  had  never  seen  her  face  so  cloud- 
ed by  sadness  before;  it  was  pale;  her  eyes  pored  on 
the  floor ;  her  mind  appeared  to  be  abstracted,  for 
she  took  no  notice  of  what  was  going  on  till  the  ser- 
vant maid  inquired  if  she  designed  to  have  the  walls 
of  the  parlor  festooned  with  vines.  "  Do  as  you 
please,"  she  replied  ;  and  rising  from  the  sofa,  she  left 
the  room  with  a  tear,  as  I  thought,  quivering  in  her 
soft  blue  eye. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  all  this?  I  could  form  no 
possible  conjecture.  I  inquired  of  the  servant  —  her 
words  were  as  a  dagger  to  my  heart.  "  Why,  have 
you  not  heard,"  said  she,  "  that  this  is  Miss  Fanny's 
wedding  night?"  —  I  could  hear  no  more;  the  maid 
would  have  proceeded,  but  my  brain  reeled,  and  1  fell 
upon  the  floor  in  a  state  of  insensibility.  How  long  I 
remained  in  that  situation  I  know  not;  but  I  was 
awakened  from  it  by  the  entrance  of  a  tall  young 
gentleman,  of  handsome  deportment,  and  splendidly 
attired,  with  a  "  broad  felicity  of  face,"  bespeaking  a 
light  mind  and  happy  heart.  It  was  for  his  coming 
that  all  these  preparations  were  made  ;  for  he  was  my 
happy  rival,  who  was  that  very  night  to  be  married  to 
the  fair  Fanny.  Prompted  by  desperation,  I  seized 
at  the  villain's  throat.  He  fled.  He  was  my  friend ; 
we  were  born  in  the  same  village,  educated  at  the 
same  school,  and  had  been  intimate  from  our  boyish 
days;  I  wore  him  in  *' my  heart's  core,"  and  not  n 


89 


THE   rAHTING   KISS. 


drcumsiance  had  ever  transpired,  until  the  present 
occurrence,  to  weaken  the  band  of  brotherhood  that 
bound  us  together.  Of  all  my  acquaintance,  he  was 
the  only  one  to  whom  I  had  communicated  the  secret 
of  my  attachment  to  Fanny.  He  abused  that  confi- 
dence to  supplant  me  in  her  affections.  And  shall  I 
bow  in  degrading  humiliation  to  the  wrong?  No  — 
rather  let  me  perish  first.  Cursed  be  the  coward  arm 
that  falters  in  a  just  revenge.  With  imprecations  on 
my  rival's  head,  I  fled  the  habitation. 

All  idea  of  my  journey  was  now  banished  from  my 
mind;  my  every  thought  was  devoted  to  revenge;  my 
heart  v/as  a  furnace  of  exasperated  passions;  my 
very  blood  boiled  with  vengeance.  Retiring  to  my 
room,  I  whetted  my  dagger  and  reloaded  my  pistol. 
*'  1  will  mar  his  mirth,"  said  I  to  myself  *'  I  will 
burst  upon  him  in  the  midst  of  his  anticipated  heaven 
like  an  unexpected  Abeli?io."  And  let  not  mistaken 
piety  denounce  all  human  vengeance  as  unrighteous. 
The  serpent  is  crushed  in  the  earth  because  of  his 
guile,  which  converted  the  bloom  of  Eden  into  a  wil- 
derness of  woe  ;  and  so  should  the  demon  still  be 
crushed,  when,  forsaking  his  reptile  shape,  he  assumes 
the  human  form,  and  spreads  over  the  paradise  of 
the  heart  a  wintry  desolation.  Reader,  when  you 
liave  loved  as  I  have  loved,  and  be  supplanted  by  a 
wretch  calling  himself  your  friend,  but  whose  smiles 
are  the  very  "  fiend's  arch  mock,"  then  will  you  be 
ready  to  exclaim  with  me,  "Who'll  sleep  in  safety 
that  hath  done  this  wrong?" 

I  know  not  how  the  time  passed  off,  but  night-fall 
had  now  come  on.  Dressing  myself  in  apparel  suited 
for  the  wedding,  thither  I  went,  sternly  determined  to 
*'  speak  daggers"  to  the  bride,  and  to  use  one  on  the 
treacherous  author  of  my  misery.  The  guests  had 
assembled,  and  the  nuptial  hour  had  almost  arrived; 


THE    PARTING    KISS.  SI 

the  bride's-maid  was  placing  the  last  flower  in  the 
bridal  wreath,  and  as  she  twined  it  in  the  shinini^ 
curl,  I  heard  her  distinctly  singing  the  beautifal 
lines  by  Mrs.  Hemans  — 

"  Bring  flowers,  bring  flowers  for  the  bride  to  wear; 
They  were  born  to  blush  in  her  sliini ng  hair. 
She  is  leaving  the  scenes  of  her  childish  mirth  ; 
Her  place  is  now  by  another's  side. 
Bring  flowers  for  the  locks  of  the  fair  young  bride.' 

The  long  parlor  was  splendidly  illuminated.  The 
chandelier,  suspended  in  the  centre,  threw  around 
a  brilliant  light,  which  the  mirrors  augmented  by  re- 
flection, whilst  the  warm  flashes  from  the  sparkling 
eyes  of  the  laughing  girls  still  added  to  the  blaze,  and 
made  the  room  glow  with  the  lustre  of  the  skies. 
The  light  of  heaven  was  there,  and  merriment  was 
there.  The  young  voices,  mingling  in  sprightly  con- 
versation, were  so  many  separate  tones  of  melody; 
and  mirth  was  in  all  —  all  was  gladness;  and  to  one 
whose  heart  had  not  been  rendered  impenetrable  to 
joy,  it  was  so  sweet  to  look  upon  the  innocent  faces, 
and  to  witness  the  unaffected  vivacity  that  prevailed  ! 
Once  I  could  have  enjoyed  the  scene ;  but  the  chord  in 
my  bosom  that  might  have  vibrated  in  unison  was  now 
snapped  asunder ;  and  amidst  all  this  gayety,  and  joy, 
and  beauty,  my  heart  retained  its  midnight  darkness, 
still  brooding  over  its  ruin,  and  nourishing  its  gloomy 
wrath.  I  mixed  not  with  the  joyous  company,  but 
retiring  to  the  remotest  comer  of  the  room,  I  folded 
my  arms,  and  impatiently  awaited  the  coming  of  the 
bridegroom  and  his  bride,  where  I  might  take,  even 
at  the  altar  of  Hymen,  that  sanguinary  vengeance 
which  despair  prompted,  and  my  wrongs  justified. 

They  soon  came.  There  was  a  silence  in  the  hall. 
I  raised  my  eyes,  and  beheld  the  happy  couple  gtand- 
6 


82  THE   PARTING   KISS. 

ing  on  the  floor,  their  attendants  ranged  on  either 
side.  The  whole  company  pressed  forward  to  look 
upon  the  fair  young  bride.  Never  had  one  shone  so 
beautiful ;  never  had  Fanny  appeared  so  lovely  to  my 
eyes  as  then.  A  long,  white  veil  fell  lightly  over  her 
forehead,  like  a  milk-white  cloud  floating  before  the 
evening  star ;  she  blushed,  and  the  carnation  on  her 
cheek  shone  like  the  glancing  sunbeam  on  the  "  Hill 
of  Benlomen."  Her  tresses  were  darker  than  the 
raven's  wing;  they  rolled  in  glossy  curls  down  her 
neck,  and  spread  upon  her  ivory  shoulders.  Her  form 
was  the  perfection  of  human  symmetry ;  she  was  the 
statue  of  Medici  animated  to  life  by  the  v/armest, 
brightest  fire  of  heaven,  exhibiting  a  constellation  of 
beauty,  where  every  charm  mingled  its  light  in  one 
unbounded  blaze.  I  gazed  upon  her,  and  the  recol- 
lection of  former  times  came  rushing  on  my  soul.  I 
thought  of  the  many  evenings  I  had  spent  with  her  in 
this  same  hall,  under  happier  circumstances;  of  the 
many  protestations  of  eternal  love  exchanged  between 
us  as  we  walked,  arm  in  arm,  to  church  of  Sabbath 
mornings,  and  of  the  times  that  we  have  loitered  on 
the  banks  of  a  neighboring  river,  and  sitting  beneath 
the  umbrageous  oaks,  would  talk  of  the  fairest  pros-*- 
pect  of  happiness  w^hen  we  should  be  united  in  mar- 
riage as  we  were  in  affection.  Often  has  she  told  me, 
in  these  delightful  rambles,  that  Heaven  had  designed 
us  for  each  other  —  I  for  her  and  she  for  me ;  and  little 
did  I  dream  that  I  should  ever  behold  her  the  bride 
of  another.  I  should  not  behold  it.  A  thousand 
times  would  I  have  rather  gone  with  a  sprig  of  rose- 
mary in  my  fingers  to  view  her  in  the  ruins  of  death. 
And  here  let  me  beg  the  reader  to  forgive  my  weak- 
ness. Mock  not  my  misery.  If  you  cannot  sympa- 
thize with  the  afflicted,  let  us  part.  I  write  for  those 
of  softer  mould,  with  more  of  the  '*  milk  of  human 


THE    PARTING    KISS.  83 

kindness"  in  their  nature,  who  can  feel  another's  woe, 
who  love  to  bind  the  broken  spirit,  and  to  pour  the 
balm  of  consolation  into  the  agonized  bosom  of  de- 
spair. There  are  such  ;  and,  ye  generous  few,  I  thank 
you  in  the  name  of  the  afflicted,  whose  sorrows  you 
delight  to  soothe;  I  thank  you  in  the  name  of  all 
who  have  experienced  the  blight  of  ruined  affection. 
Cheer  them  by  thy  kindness  if  thou  canst,  for  their 
hearts  have  become  desolate,  and  they  stand  in  need 
of  all  the  consolation  to  be  derived  from  the  tender- 
est  sympathies  of  friendship:  the  virtuous  will  ever 
extend  it ;  the  vicious  have  none  to  bestow. 

But  to  return  to  my  story.  The  venerable  minis- 
ter who  was  to  unite  the  happy  couple  in  wedlock, 
now  assumed  his  station  on  the  floor ;  and  in  a  mo- 
ment all  was  silence.  Whilst  he  was  addressing  to 
them  a  few  prefatory  admonitions,  I  silently  made  my 
way  through  the  crowd,  and  planted  myself  at  my 
rival's  back.  I  laid  my  hand  upon  my  dagger : 
'twas  strange  my  heart  began  to  falter  in  its  steadi- 
ness. Then  it  was  that  the  enormity  of  the  act  which 
I  was  about  to  perpetrate,  flashed  across  my  mind  in 
all  its  horror.  He  still  looked  like  the  friend  of  my 
youth:  to  imbrue  my  hands  in  his  blood  —  to  mur- 
der him  —  it  seemed  too  horrid;  I  trembled  in  every 
joint,  and  a  cold  perspiration  bedewed  my  forehead. 
And  yet  must  he  triumph  in  my  ruin?  Hath  he  not 
wronged  me?  Is  not  vengeance  mine,  and  shall  I 
shrink  from  the  meditated  blow?  There  was  a 
mighty  conflict  in  my  bosom  between  its  gentle  im- 
pulses and  its  angry  passions;  but  vengeance  tri- 
umphed. I  thought  my  rival  beheld  me ;  and  in  the 
look  which  he  bestowed,  there  seemed  to  be  an  air  of 
exultation  and  haughty  defiance  that  reinvigorated  my 
nerve,  reanimated  my  resentment.  Again  he  stood 
before  me  in  all  the  blackness  of  his  guilt;  a  perfidi- 


^4 


THE   PARTING   KISS. 


ous  demon,  who  had  mercilessly  robbed  me  of  my 
*"' life's  life."  The  aged  minister  proceeded  in  the' 
marriage  ceremony  —  "  li  any  know  a  lavvfal  reason 
why  this  couple  should  not  be  joined  in  the  holy  state 
of  matrimony,  let  them  speak."  He  paused  as  if  for 
a  reply.  Now  was  my  time.  I  touched  the  bride 
upon  the  shoulder ;  she  turned.  "Be  not  alarmed," 
I  cried,  "  for  I  meditated  no  injury  to  you,  O,  Fanny, 
when  I  admired  the  diamond  brightness  of  your 
beauty,  I  did  not  think  your  bosom  had  the  diamond's 
hardness  too."  I  could  say  no  more  ;  utterance  for- 
sook me ;  and  in  the  frenzy  of  despair,  twisting  my 
fingers  in  the  locks  of  the  bewildered  bridegroom, 
at  one  convulsive  effort  I  felled  him  on  the  floor,  and 
planted  my  knee  upon  his  breast.  The  whole  com- 
pany vv^ere  petrified  to  marble.  Before  they  could 
sufficiently  recover  from  their  panic,  to  render  assist- 
ance to  the  imploring  victim  at  my  feet,  I  snatched 
my  pistol  from  the  belt,  and  cocked  it  at  his  throbbing 
temple.  At  this  moment  the  fair  Fanny  caught  me 
by  the  hand,  and  giving  it  a  gentle  and  affectionate 
pressure,  she  said,  "  Come,  come  ;  are  you  not  going 
to  write  in  my  album?  It  has  been  :dmost  an  hour 
since  you  seated  yourself  down  for  that  purpose." 
''  Write  in  your  album,  fair  creature  ?  "  said  I;  "  why^ 
yes,  I  will  write  in  your  album."  And  so  saying,  I 
aroused  me  from  the  reverie  into  which  I  had  fallen 
from  the  time  I  took  my  seat  by  the  table,  and  was 
much  relieved  on  finding  that  the  above  dreadful  cir- 
cumstances existed  only  in  a  dream  of  imagination. 
Again  I  dipped  my  pen  in  the  stand,  and  having 
nothing  poetic  about  me,  I  penned  the  above.  The 
stage  horn  summoned  me  as  I  finished,  and  I  just 
had  time  to  print  on  Fanny's  lip  —  tiie  Parting 
Kiss. 


THE    LOWLY    LADY.  85 


THE    LOWLY    LADY. 

The  sad  but  stately  procession  had  passed  into  the 
church,  and  even  the  aisles  of  the  venerable  build- 
ino;  were  thronged  with  persons.  One  might  have 
thought,  who  looked  upon  the  coronet,  glittering  on 
the  cushion  of  crimson  velvet,  and  all  the  other  insig- 
nia of  high  rank,  that  curiosity  alone  had  drawn 
thither  such  a  crowd ;  but  a  deeper  interest  was 
marked  on  every  countenance;  and  the  firm  voice 
of  the  minister  had  faltered  more  than  once,  as  he 
read  the  solemn  service.  Yet  the  coffin  was  that  of 
a  child,  a  little,  tender  infant,  who  had  died  in  its 
first,  unconscious  helplessness.  Every  one  thought  of 
the  flither,  standing  up  among  them,  and  looking  so 
desolate  in  his  grief.  More  than  one  fond  mother 
wept,  and  drew  her  red  cloak  closely  round  the  in- 
fant on  her  bosom,  as  she  gazed  round  upon  the 
mournful  pomp,  and  the  little  coffin,  and  the  young 
nobleman  —  childless,  and  worse  than  widowed  — 
O  yes  !  worse  than  widowed  1  as  he  stood  there,  and 
followed  with  his  eyes  the  movement  of  the  men  then 
placing  the  coffin  of  his  child  in  the  shadowy  dark- 
ness of  the  open  vault  below  him.  That  church  was 
a  place  of  agonizing  recollection  to  the  young  earl 
of  Derby.  Often  had  he  entered  it  a  happy  husband  ; 
and,  as  he  walked  slowly  down  the  aisle  to  his  car- 
riage, he  could  not  help  recalling  the  day  when  his 
beautiful  and  modest  bride  had  clung,  in  trembling 
bashfulness,  to  his  arm,  when  he  had  there,  for  the 
first  time,  called  her  his  wife.  "  I  am  sick  of  all  this 
idle  pomp  I"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  entered  the 
wide  hall  of  his  own  magnificent  residence,  attended 
by  his  train  of  servants,  and  met  by  the  obsequious  bows 


0\>  THE   LOWLY   LADY. 

of  the  men  who  had  conducted  the  funeral ;  "  I  am 
sick  of  all  this  mockery  !  I  will  bear  it  no  longer. 
Would  that  I  were  a  poor,  hard-working  peasant, 
with  some  honest  hearts  to  care  for  me,  and  love  me. 
I  am  heartily  tired  of  your  great  people  !  " 

Not  many  weeks  after  the  funeral  of  the  heir  of 
the  noble  house  of  Derby,  a  solitary  wayfaring  man 
stopped  at  the  turning  of  a  little  foot-path,  which  led 
down  the  sloping  side  of  the  hill  overlooking  the  vil- 
lage of  H —.      He  had  been  leisurely  wandering 

on  since  the  early  hours  of  the  morning,  and  had  not 
yet  found  the  place  where  he  would  rest  for  the  night. 
*'  Here,  at  least,  is  a  happy  scene,"  he  said,  as  he 
looked  down  upon  the  little  village  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill.  About  fifty  or  sixty  persons  were  scat- 
tered, in  careless  groups,  about  the  pleasant  green. 
Some  of  them  were  dancing  beneath  a  venerable 
grove  of  elms  ;  others  were  crowded  round  the  only 
booth  which  had  been  raised  in  the  rustic  fair. 
*'  At  least,  I  may  witness  their  enjoyment,  though  I 
cannot  share  it,"  he  said;  and,  in  a  few  moments,  he 
was  standing  beneath  the  old  trees  on  the  green. 

But,  although  he  was  not  recognized  as  the  earl 
of  Derby,  and  disgusted  by  the  attentions  paid  to  his 
rank  and  station,  he  found  the  familiarity  of  vulgar 
minds  and  low  manners  not  quite  so  agreeable  as  he 
had  perhaps  expected.  Q,uietly  he  turned  away  from 
the  noisy  scene.  He  passed  over  the  old  bridge, 
which  crosses  the  clear  and  shallow  stream,  and 
turned  down  a  lane,  the  banks  of  which  were  over- 
grown with  wild  flowers,  and  straggling  bushes  of 
birch,  sufficiently  high  and  thick  to  meet  overhead, 
and  form  a  perfect  bov/er  of  grateful  shade.  A  poor 
woman  was  returning  home  through  the  lane  with  her 
children,  her  infant  sleeping  soundly  on  her  bosom, 
and  a  curly-headed  urchin  distending  his  cheeks  with 


THE    LOWLY    LADV.  87 

pufling  at  a  little  painted  trumpet,  the  horrid  grating 
of  which  had  all  the  charm  of  nove-lty  and  noise  to 
him.  The  young  mother  looked  so  hot  and  tired, 
and  withal  so  good-humored,  that  the  earl  could  not 
resist  asking  her  if  she  could  direct  him  to  a  lodging. 
"Not  in  that  merry  village  we  have  just  left,"  he  said, 
"  for  I  am  unwell  and  tired." 

The  woman  pointed  to  a  little  path,  not  very  far 
from  the  spot  where  they  stood,  which  turned  sudden- 
ly out  of  the  lane  into  a  wood,  overhanging  the  river; 
and  directed  him  to  follow  it  through  a  larg-e  corn- 
field,  and  up  a  very  steep,  sandy  lane,  and  then,  for 
ahout  half  a  mile  over;  —  but  such  directions  are 
tiresome  enough,  when  one  is  obliged  to  listen  to 
them  to  learn  one's  own  way;  here,  they  would  be 
even  more  so.  Besides,  I  am  not  sure  the  earl  at- 
tended to  the  poor  woman,  for  he  lost  his  way.  He 
walked  on,  wrapped  in  his  own  melancholy  thoughts, 
but  soothed,  in  every  sense,  by  the  cool,  fresh  air,  the 
gurgling  flow  of  the  river,  and  all  those  distant  sounds, 
which,  in  the  quiet  fields,  on  a  fair,  calm  evening,  fall 
so  sweetly  indistinct  upon  the  ear.  But  the  sun  had 
set  before  the  wanderer  awoke  to  the  recollection  of 
the  purpose  before  him.  He  looked  around  him;  he 
saw  green  and  sloping  hills,  many  stately  trees,  and 
the  same  calm  river  flowing  gently  below,  but  no 
house.  At  last,  where  the  leafy  shade  was  deepest, 
he  discovered  a  pile  of  old,  quaintly-shaped  chimneys, 
opposed  against  the  glowing  sky.  He  had  not  pro- 
ceeded far  in  the  direction  of  the  farm-house,  which 
now  plainly  appeared  among  the  trees,  when  a  light 
step  seemed  to  approach  him,  and  then  stopped  sud- 
denly ;  and  he  heard  the  sound  of  unrestrained  weep- 
ing. A  hazel  copse  separated  him  from  the  mead- 
ow whence  the  sound  proceeded  ;  but,  on  peeping 
through  a  little  opening,  he  saw  that  a  young  girl 


S8  THE   LOWLY   LACY* 

VcsiS  sitting  on  the  bank  of  the  meadow  on  the  Otbs 
side.  For  a  little  while  she  continued  weeping—^ 
only  for  a  little  while  —  then,  clasping  her  hands  to- 
gether, she  raised  her  head,  and  her  whole  hearV 
seemed  to  look  up  to  Heaven  in  her  meek  and  stead- 
fast gaze. 

Still  she  sat  there,  almost  without  stirring,  except 
that,  once  or  twice,  she  looked  down  upon  the  greeiA 
grass,  and  her  hand  dropped,  half  forgetfully  and 
half  playfully,  among  the  flowers  that  grew  in  wild 
luxuriance  beside  her,  as  if  she  was  pleased  with,  but 
scarcely  knew  she  noticed  them.  Just  then  the  rich 
Eong  of  the  nightingale  burst  upon  the  stillness  of  the 
evening,  and  stole  away  her  ear  5  and  though  hei* 
thoughts  seemed  yet  to  linger  on  about  the  subject 
which  had  made  her  weep,  she  listened,  till  at  last  she 
smiled ;  and  so,  minute  after  minute  passed  awayj, 
and  gradually  she  forgot  all  her  trouble:  and  the 
only  expression  on  her  fair  face  was  innocent  glad- 
ness. 

Let  no  one  suppose  that^  in  this  fair  country  girl, 
we  have  met  with  any  maiden  of  gentle  birth, 
brought  down  to  a  low  estate  by  the  hard  uses  of  ad- 
versity ;  nor  any  wonder  of  her  native  village,  gifted 
with  talents  of  the  highest  order.  O  no !  Lucy 
was  none  of  these.  What  was  she  ?  A  fair  and  hap^ 
py  maiden  of  low  birth,  (if  to  be  born  of  poor  and 
honest  parents  be  low  birth,)  of  no  accomplishments 
or  education  beyond  reading  and  —  let  me  remem- 
ber—yes, she  could  write.  She  read  well,  for  her 
voice  was  full  of  natural  melody;  and  practice,  and 
genuine  feeling,  and  above  all,  piety,  had  made  her 
very  perfect. 

Lucy's  features  were  not  beautiful,  but  their  mod" 
est,  innocent  expression  was  better  than  mere  beauty 
Her  hands  were  not  the  whitest  in  the  Avorld,  though 


THE    LOWLY   LADY.  89 

<3^1icatfely,  nay,  exquisitely  shaped :  their  little  palms 
might  have  been  softer ;  but,  if  it  might  have  been 
said  of  her,  as  of  the  fair  and  happy  milkmaid,  "she 
xiiakes  her  hand  hard  with  labor,"  it  might  have  been 
well  added,  "and  her  heart  soft  with  pity;"  for  they 
who  knew  her  say  she  was  the  kindest  creature  that 
ever  lived,  and  speak  of  a  gentle  and  winning  cour- 
teousness  of  manners,  that  gave  a  charm  to  every 
look,  and  every  M-ord  she  uttered.  But  although  she 
was  one  of  nature's  own  sweet  gentlewomen,  and  un- 
affectedly modest  and  pious,  she  was  only  a  poor, 
uneducated  country  girl.  There  was  one,  however, 
who  soon  began  to  find  new  hope  —  new  life,  I  might 
a^.most  say-—-  in  the  society  of  Lucy;  one  who,  in  spite 
of  all  the  pride  or  aristocracy  of  his  habits  and  his 
prejudices,  began  to  feel  it  a  privilege  to  be  addressed 
as  a  familiar  friend  by  the  pure-minded  maiden  ;  who 
felt,  in  his  inmost  heart,  the  influence  of  her  modest, 
cheerful  piety ;  and  paid  her,  from  his  heart,  the 
homage  of  respect  and  love  that  was  the  sweeter  from 
being  half  made  up  of  gratitude. 

He  could  not  help  smiling,  when  he  made  his  pro- 
posals, in  due  form,  to  the  relations  of  his  sweet  Lucy; 
for  they  did  not  choose  to  have  their  child  thrown 
away  upon  one  who,  for  what  they  knew  to  the  con- 
trary, might  be  little  better  than  a  beggar,  or  a  sort 
cf  (they  did  not  quite  say  the  word)  "  vagabond." 
They  doubted,  and  questioned,  and  wavered,  and 
questioned  him  again,  till  the  earl  began  to  feel  un- 
comfortable, and  to  stammer  and  blush ;  and  thus,  in 
fact,  to  make  them  really  suspicious  ;  for  he  had  quite 
forgotten  to  provide  against  this  most  probable  issue 
of  his  suit  to  them. 

"  You  see,"  said  an  old  uncle,  at  last,  who  was  the 
head  of  the  family,  and  the  best  spokesman,  "  you  may 
be  a  very  good  sort  of  a  young  man,  and  I  have  noth« 


90 


THE  LOWLY  LADY. 


ing  to  say  against  you ;  but  you  are,  or  at  least  have 
been,  till  now,  when  you're  plucking  up  a  bit,  a  poor, 
sickly,  idle  body;  and,  suppose  you  fall  ill,  or  take  to 
no  kind  of  employ,  and  have  nothing  coming  in  of  your 
own  —  why,  Lucy's  fifty  pounds,  and  the  hundred  that  I 
shall  leave  her,  when,  please  Heaven,  I  die,  will  go  but 
a  very  little  way.  I  tell  you  what."  he  said,  "  brother 
and  sister,"  (turning  to  Lucy's  parents,  and  look- 
ing very  wise.)  "  don't  be  in  a  hurry  to  give  your  con- 
sent; Lucy,  though  Lsay  it,  is  as  good  a  girl  as  any 
in  the  land,  and  fit  for  a  lord  —  yes!  I  say  it  again, 
(though  you  seem  to  smile.)  young  man  —  fit  for  any 
lord  in  the  land." 

Lucy  had  been  very  busily  plucking  the  withered 
leaves  from  a  geranium,  which  her  lover  had  given 
her;  but  now  she  turned  round,  pale  and  trembling, 
for  she  feared  the  effect  of  her  uncle's  harangue  upon 
her  father,  who  was  apt  to  be  as  positive  as  his 
brother.  She  trembled,  and  her  heart  throbbed  with 
agitation,  for  she  cared  not  if  he  whom  she  loved 
were  penniless ;  but  she  felt,  that  without  the  con- 
sent of  her  parents,  (servants  of  God,  and  kind 
parents,  as  they  both  were,)  she  could  not  marry  him. 
She  turned,  as  gentle,  lovmg  daughters  will,  on  all 
such  occasions,  to  her  own  tender  mother,  and  she 
had  not  to  speak ;  her  mother  could  read  her  looks, 
and  she  could  not  resist  the  tears  which  rose  so  sudden- 
ly into  the  soft  eyes  of  her  duteous  child.  Mothers,  or 
wives,  I  meant  to  say,  have  a  winning  way  of -their 
own  —  particularly  mild,  submissive  wives,  such  as 
Lucy's  mother ;  and  what  with  her  own  influence  as 
a  wife,  and  her  own  woman's  wit,  or  (in  truer  words) 
calm  good  sense,  it  was  soon  agreed  that  Lucy  should 
marry  her  love  on  this  condition  —  that  the  answer  to 
a  certain  letter,  to  be  written  by  him,  for  a  good  char- 
acter, etc^,  proved  satisfactory. 


THE    LOWLY    LADY.  91 

In  due  time,  to  the  very  day,  a  letter  arrived,  direct- 
ed to  Lucy's  father.  Witli  this  letter  the  father  and 
the  uncle  were  quite  satisfied;  and  novi^  Lucy,  who 
had  been,  at  times,  unusually  silent,  recovered  all 
her  cheerfulness,  and  went  about  the  house  sino-incr 
(so  her  mother  thought)  like  a  nightingale.  Thomas 
Clifford  —  for  so  he  called  himself —  was  married  to 
his  Lucy,  and  all  the  fair  and  modest  girls  of  the  neigh- 
borhood were  waiting  round  the  church  door,  to  fling 
basketfuls  of  flowers  in  the  little  path,  as  Clifford  led 
his  bride  to  their  own  cottage. 

He  heard  the  blessing  of  many  poor,  aged  crea- 
tures, who  lingered  about  in  the  sunshine  of  the 
churchyard,  upon  his  humble,  yet  lovely  bride.  Ev- 
ery one  who  met  them  on  that  happy  morning, 
sm.iled  upon  them,  and  blessed  them, 

*'  High  rank,  heaps  of  gold,  could  not  buy  such 
blessings  as  this ! "  said  he  to  himself;  "  but  my 
sweet  and  pious  Lucy  has  won  the  love  of  every 
heart.  These  people,  too,  have  known  her  from  her 
childhood !  " 

******* 

''That  is  a  grand  place,  indeed!  "  said  Lucy,  as, 
toward  the  close  of  their  second  day's  journey,  they 
approached  an  ancient  and  almost  princely  edifice; 
*'  but  does  our  road  lie  through  the  park?  " 

"  Not  exactly  through  the  park,"  he  replied  ,  "  but 
I  thought  my  Lucy  might  like  to  see  these  fine 
grounds,  and  the  house  and  gardens.  I  have  known 
the  gardener  and  housekeeper  for  years ;  and  I  am 
sure  we  shall  find  them  very  civil,  and  willing  to 
show  us  any  little  attention  in  their  power,  and  we 
have  time  enough,  though  the  sun  is  getting  low,  for 
we  are  just  at  home." 

Lucy  w^as  delighted.  She  had  never  seen  a  noble- 
xnan's  house  before,  she  said. 


92 


THE    r.iWLY    LADY. 


''  Well !  all  those  large  rooms,  and  the  pictures, 
and  all  the  fine  furniture  are  very  grand,"  said  Lucy  ; 
*'  but  my  eyes  ache  with  looking  at  them ;  I  like  this 
orarden  a  great  deal  better.  What  a  beautiful  one  it 
is!  But  may  we  sit  down  in  this  arbor  of  honey- 
suckle so  near  the  house?  " 

Lucy  sat  in  silence  for  some  little  time,  gazing 
round  her  at  the  venerable  house,  and  the  trees  and 
gardens ;  at  length  she  said,  "  I  wonder  if  the  lord 
of  this  grand  place  is  happy?  Is  the  earl  of  Derby  a 
good  man,  dear  husband  1  Is  he  kind  and  free-spoken 
to  the  poor?  Is  he  a  married  man?'"  she  added, 
looking  with  a  smile  of  peculiar  sweetness  in  her 
husband's  face. 

*'  How  many  questions  you  have  given  me  to  an- 
swer, Lucy  !  Let  me  consider  !  Yes,  he  is  a  married 
man ;  he  married,  not  many  months  ago,  a  young 
country  girl,  such  another  as  yourself,  dear   Lucy." 

"Poor  thing!"  said  Lucy;  and  she  sighed  from 
her  very  heart. 

*'  Why  do  you  sigh,  my  own  wife?"  he  demand- 
ed.    "  Do  you  envy  that  poor  country  maiden?" 

''Do  I  envy  her?"  she  replied,  in  a  voice  of  tender 
reproach  ;  "  what  a  strange  question  !  Do  I  envy  any 
one?"  And  as  she  said  this,  she  drew  more  closely 
round  her  the  arm  which  encircled  her  slender  waist. 
"  Would  i  exchange  ray  husband  with  any  one?  "  she 
added,  looking  up  tenderly  and  lovingly  into  his  face. 
"  I  sighed  in  pity  for  the  poor  young  lady,  (for  a  lady 
she  is  now:)  such  a  change  is  enough  to  turn  her 
head." 

"  Would  it  turn  yours,  Lucy?"  he  said. 

"Perhaps  it  might!  "  she  said,  in  the  simplest  and 
most  natural  manner.  "But  is  she  really  happy? 
Does  she  love  him  for  himself  alone?  " 

"My  sweet  Lucy,"  he  began,   and  as  he    spokOj^ 


THE    LOWLY    LADY.  93 

his  wife  thought  that  he  had  never  seemed  so  tender- 
ly respectful  toward  her —  "  My  sweet  Lucy,  you  alone 
can  answer  these  last  questions ;  you  smile !  I  see 
you  look  amazed  upon  me ;  but  I  repeat  it,  you 
alone !  " 

"  But  first,"  said  Lucy,  very  artlessly,  *'  I  must  be 
lady  here ;  you  must  make  me  countess  of  Derby  !  " 

She  iiad  scarcely  said  this,  when,  from  one  of  the 
castle  turrets,  a  bell  began  to  toll :  Clifford  rose  up 
instantly,  and,  without  saying  a  word,  led  his  wife 
up  to  the  castle.  They  entered  the  chapel  there,  in 
which  the  servants  and  the  tenants  had  all  assembled, 
and  the  chaplain  was  preparing  to  commence  the 
evening  service ;  then,  leading  the  wondering  Lucy 
into  the  midst  of  them,  he  presented  her  to  them  as 
their  future  mistress,  the  countess  of  Derby,  his 
wife. 

Lucy  did  not  speak ;  she  could  scarcely  stand  ; 
the  color  forsook  her  face,  and  she  looked  as  one 
about  to  faint.  She  stared  first  at  her  husband,  and 
then  at  the  domestics  around  her;  and  at  last  she 
began  to  comprehend  every  thing.  Eagerly  she 
seized  her  husband's  hand,  v/hich  she  had  dropped 
in  her  surprise,  now  affectionately  extended  to  her ; 
then,  with  an  effort  that  was  very  visible,  but  which 
gave  new  interest  to  her  in  the  eyes  of  all  present, 
she  regained  somewhat  of  her  natural  and  modest 
self-possession,  and,  raising  her  innocent  face,  she 
courtesied  to  the  ground,  and  met  the  respectful 
greeting  of  those  around  her  with  smiles,  which, 
perhaps,  spoke  more  at  once  to  the  heart  than  the 
best  wisdom  of  words.  The  earl  of  Derby  led  his 
wife  to  his  own  seat,  and  placed  her  beside  him. 

Lucy  knelt  down  upon  a  cushion  of  embroidered 
velvet,  with  the  sculptured  escutcheons  and  stately 
banners  of  the  house  of  Derby  above  her ;  but  per- 


94 


WOMEN   ARE   FICKLE. 


haps,  of  all  the  high-born  dames  of  that  ancient  fam- 
ily, none  ever  knelt  there  with  a  purer  heart,  or  with 
an  humbler  spirit,  than  that  lowly  lady. 


WOMEN  ARE  FICKLE. 

It  was  about  ten  o'clock,  of  a  fine  bright  morning, 
that  the  countess  of  Salignac  awoke.  With  her 
lovely  white  hand  she  pushed  aside  the  curtains  of 
her  bed,  and  rang  for  her  maid,  who  leisurely  made 
her  appearance. 

"  You  are  somewhat  tardy,  Marguerite,"  said  her 
mistress. 

"  My  lady,  I  was  receiving  a  visitor,  the  Viscount 
Charles  d'Atry." 

"  What,  before  twelve  o'clock  ?  For  a  country 
beau,  that  is  being  in  a  hurry  indeed.  For  my  part,  I 
am  not  at  all  anxious  to  see  him.  I  am  going  to  write 
a  letter." 

"  But  the  viscount  is  waiting,  my  lady." 

*'  Let  him  wait,  Marguerite." 

Marguerite  wisely  left  the  room,  and  the  capricious 
beauty  indited  the  following  epistle :  — ■ 

"  Dearest  Matilda, 

"  You  are  a  happy  woman,  not  to  inhabit 
this  hateful  city.  I  am  almost  ready  to  grumble  at 
you  for  leaving  me  here  so  long.  I  am  in  the  midst 
of  a  racket  which  will  certainly  kill  me.  I  am  de- 
prived of  sleep  even  in  those  hours  usually  devoted 
to  that  purpose.  Pity  me,  my  lovely  friend.  Pleas- 
ure dwells  in  Paris,  and  happiness  in  the  country ; 


WOMEN    ARE    FICKLE.  95 

and  trust  me,  yours  is  the  better  lot.  But  I,  too, 
shall  soon  share  your  happiness,  if  the  Hermitage, 
whither  we  contemplate  retiring,  is  nearly  finished. 
I  send  you  the  last  opera,  which  would  be  prettier  if 
it  were  less  fatiguing.  Do  you  know,  dearest,  that 
our  retreat  will  be  much  talked  of?  Six  pretty 
widows,  with  each  twenty-five  thousand  francs  a 
year,  and  neither  of  them  twenty-five  years  of  age, 
leaving  Satan  and  the  world,  and  its  pomps  and  van- 
ities, and  starting  off  one  fine  morning  to  live  in  a 
desert,  to  pray  and  weep,  without  rhyme  or  reason, 
like  St.  Francis  or  St.  Jerome,  will,  I  flatter  myself, 
produce  some  sensation  in  Paris.  When  I  say  pray 
and  weep,  I  yield  my  pen  to  the  guidance  of  my  head, 
as  my  old  fool  of  a  lover,  the  academician,  said,  when 
he  laid  his  heart  and  laurels  at  my  ket,  of  which  pre- 
cious treasures  I  have  no  idea  of  depriving  my  sex. 
Do  not  be  alarmed,  Matilda ;  you,  dearest,  alone  know 
whom  I  love. 

"  Do  not  be  alarmed.  I  know  that  men  only  love 
well  in  novels ;  and  Werter  has  ruined  me  for  any 
lovers.  It  is  utterly  impossible  to  love  in  Paris  ;  one 
has  no  time  for  that  sort  of  thing.  I  have  such  a 
capital  theory  on  that  subject,  that  I  brave  all  dan- 
gers, and  set  at  defiance  the  mob  of  dandies  that 
besiege  me.  But  pray,  pray  let  the  Hermitage  be 
got  ready.  The  very  streets  of  Paris  oppress,  dis- 
tress me.  I  am  dying  to  roam  about  the  fields  with 
you,  to  gather  violets  and  daisies,  and  drink  milk.  I 
am  more  than  ever  convinced,  dearest,  that  true 
happiness  can  only  be  enjoyed,  as  M.  Lamartine  so 
beautifully  says,  while  sitting  under  a  far-spreading 
oak,  and  looking  at  peasants  dancing  on  the  green. 

''To  think  of  love  when  one  has  a  friend,  what  a 
perfect  horror  !  '  Matilda,  I  await  your  orders.  Let 
me  have  but  a  line  from  you,  and  I  set  off  instantly 


96 


WOMEN    AHE   FICKLE. 


to  join  you  at  your  sweet,  sweet  Hermitage,  for  which 
we  have  a  sweet,  sweet  name.  Ah,  I  had  almost 
forgotten  :  you  must  examine  our  garden,  and  choose 
a  little  shady,  retired  nook,  where  I  can  erect  a  pretty 
little  temple,  dedicated  to  friendship.  My  architect 
has  procured  me  the  design  of  the  temple  at  Turin, 
which  I  assure  you  is  the  ninth  wonder  of  the  world. 
You  shall  see  it.  I  have  wasted  so  much  money 
]ately,  that  it  is  quite  time  now  to  think  of  something 
useful.  Farewell,  my  only,  only  love  ;  we  shall  soon 
be  in  each  other's  arms;  until  which  happy  hour,  I 
send  you  as  many  kisses  as  there  are  miles  be- 
tween us. 

"  Henrietta  de  Salignac." 

This  important  letter  sealed  and  despatched,  the 
countess  bethought  herself  of  her  visitor. 

*'  My  lady,"  said  Marguerite,  quietly,  "  the  viscount 
is  still  down  stairs.  He  would  not  go  away.  There 
he  stands,  with  his  letter  from  your  uncle  in  his  hand. 
He  says  he  is  your  cousin." 

"  First  or  second  cousin.  Marguerite?" 

"  That  I  do  not  know,  my  lady ;  but  he  certainly 
looks  like  you.  He  has  beautiful  dark  eyes,  and 
black  hair,  and  a  famous  pair  of  mustaches.  He  is 
very  young,  very  tall,  and  very  handsome;  but  for 
all  that,  I  do  not  admire  his  mustaches." 

"Who  asked  you  to  tell  me  all  this  nonsense?'*" 
said  the  countess. 

"  Ah,  my  lady,  my  lady,  he  was  standing  gazing  in 
perfect  ecstasy  at  your  picture." 

"  Ah,  another  victim  !  "  sighed  forth  the  beauty. 

Madame  de  Salignac  found  her  early  visitor  as 
Marguerite  had  described,  with  folded  arms,  and  eyes 
and  heart  so  riveted  on  the  beautiful  portrait,  thai 
he  did  not  notice  the  entrance  of  the  lovelier  originaL 


WOMEN    ARE    FICKLE.  Vf7 

It  is  true  that  the  countess's  pretty  little  feet  touched 
the  ground  as  lightly  and  noiselessly  as  the  falling 
snow.  The  interview  was  a  short  one.  The  vis- 
count presented  his  letter,  and  owing  either  to  the 
intercession  of  an  uncle,  all  powerful  with  Henrietta, 
or  to  the  title  of  cousin,  or  to  the  graceful  reserve  of 
his  own  manners,  Charles  received  permission  to  call 
whenever  it  suited  him.  One  week's  time  saw  him 
enlisted  among  the  most  assiduous  and  ardent  of  the 
countess's  lovers.  His  friends  saw  it  with  pity  and 
regret.  In  vain  they  asked  him,  "  Why  will  you 
devote  yourself  to  a  coquette,  who  laughs  at  your 
affection,  and  is  talking  of  secluding  herself  from  the 
world  ?  Why  will  you  swell  the  number  of  those 
whose  flame  she  feeds  with  smiles  and  contempt ! 
Do  you  expect  to  change  her  nature,  and  soften  that 
heart  of  iron  ?  Charles,  gaze  upon  and  admire  the 
countess  as  you  would  one  of  Raphael's  lovely  Ma- 
donnas ;  but  if  you  want  a  wife,  choose  her  from  those 
who  do  not  pique  themselves  upon  abjuring  love. 
Madame  de  Salignac's  kingdom  is  not  of  this  world." 
The  unfortunate  young  lover  always  assented  to 
the  truth  of  these  observations;  yet  every  day  he 
grew  pale  and  thinner,  and  every  evening  found  him 
at  his  post;  every  evening,  like  a  slave,  he  found 
himself  fast  bound  in  the  fetters,  which,  in  the  morn- 
ing, he  flattered  himself  he  had  burst  forever.  Strug- 
gling without  subduing  such  affection,  was  only 
feeding  its  flame.  Exhausted  at  length  by  his  inward 
struggles,  maddened  by  the  sneers  and  jokes  of  his 
friends,  and  dreading  the  approaching  departure  of 
Henrietta,  Charles  determined  to  seal  his  fate  one 
way  or  another.  He  swore  that  if  she  was  not  his 
wife  within  a  fortnight,  all  Paris  should  ring  with  the 
tale  of  a  young  nobleman  blowing  out  his  brains  at 
the  very  feet  of  his  cruel  mistress.  This  resolution 
7 


98 


WOMElNr   ARE   FICKLE. 


somewhat  restored  his  peace  of  mind ;  he  could  not 
believe  that  his  fair  cousin  would  willingly  cause  his 
death  ;  and  soothed  and  flattered  by  his  own  ideas,  his 
cheek  regained  its  bloom,  and  his  eye  its  fire.  One 
morning  he  dressed  himself  with  extreme  care,  or- 
dered at  a  fashionable  store  a  rich  and  beautiful 
CorhfAUe  cle  Mariage,  and  bought  an  admirable  pair 
of  pistols,  which  having  loaded,  he  repaired  to  the 
house  of  Madame  de  Salignac. 

It  was  about  eleven  o'clock,  and  the  countess  was 
in  her  boudoir,  surrounded  by  twenty  mantua-makers, 
who  were  busy  displaying  loads  of  hats,  capes,  blonde, 
silks,  and  flowers.  For  a  woman  on  the  point  of 
giving  up  the  world,  one  might  have  censured  the  ad- 
miring, envying  glances  she  bestowed  on  all  these 
vanities.  There  is  a  devil  which  no  daughter  of  Eve 
can  ever  resist ;  and  that  devil  is  love  of  dress.  The 
coquettish  countess  first  held  up  to  view  a  blonde 
scarf,  then  a  delicate  rose-colored  silk,  and  with 
heart  and  hand  intent  upon  the  finery,  artfully  set 
before  her  eyes,  testified,  by  broken  and  involuntary 
sentences,  her  admiration  and  delight.  In  the  midst 
of  her  preoccupation,  the  door  suddenly  flew  open,  and 
in  rushed  the  viscount. 

"  Henrietta,"  he  said,  coming  up  to  her,  and  speak- 
ing in  a  low,  agitated  tone,  "  I  have  come  to  know 
my  fate.     Either  you  or  death  must  be  my  bride." 

"Of  these  two  very  similar  brides,"  replied  Henri- 
etta, coolly,  "I  am  sadly  afraid,  my  handsome  cousin, 
that  you  will  have  to  choose  the  latter.  —  But  only 
look  at  this  cape ;  is  it  not  a  perfect  love,  Charles  ? 
was  there  ever  such  exquisite  work?" 

"  We  will  talk  of  capes  some  other  time,  countess. 
My  answer  !  my  answer  !  " 

"  Why,  what  are  we  talking  about  now,  Charles  1 '" 

"  I  am  talking  about  myself,  Henrietta  —  of  my  life. 


WOMEN    ARE    FICKLE.  ^      99 

my  happiness,  my  passionate  love.  Hear  me :  — 
grant  me  your  hand,  or  witness  my  death.  Answer 
me  seriously,  Henrietta — life  or  death?" 

"To  be  frank  and  serious,  Charles,  I  would  very 
much  like  this  cape." 

"No,  no,  —  it  is  my  death  you  seek.     You  shall 

.be  gratitied,  madam.     Go  on  —  buy  capes — do  not 

think  of  me.     How  could  I  suppose  myself  of  more 

importance  in  your  eyes  than  a  cape,  a  new  cape.     I 

must  have  been  mad." 

"  Somewhat  so,  I  admit,  Charles.  Upon  the  whole, 
I  should  prefer  this  pretty  dress.  I  mean  to  go  to  the 
opera  to-morrow  evening,  and  I  have  nothing  to  wear. 
It  is  a  perfect  love  —  the  color,  the  make,  everything 
lovely.  Come,  Charles,  do  not  look  so  gloomy. 
When  a  woman  is  full  of  business,  you  should  not 
come  and  talk  to  her  about  love  and  suicide.  Well, 
I  have  quite  made  up  my  mind  that  I  will  buy  this 
sweet  dress." 

Though  Charles  felt  that  his  very  existence  depend- 
ed upon  this  frivolous,  careless  creature,  yet  could  he 
hardly  restrain  a  smile  at  her  passion  for  gewgaws. 
He  quietly  and  silently  listened  to  a  long  discussion 
about  thread  and  needles,  and  though  almost  choked 
by  contending  emotions,  appeared  perfectly  calm  and 
self-possessed.  What  a  contrast  was  there  between 
the  quiet,  graceful  manner  of  the  countess,  and  the 
few  friendly  words  she  now  and  then,  as  from  polite- 
ness, addressed  to  him,  and  her  enthusiasm  about  a 
piece  of  lace,  her  screams  of  delight  at  a  feather,  her 
perfect  ecstasy  at  the  sight  of  a  wreath  of  roses ;  be- 
tween the  attention  she  bestowed  upon  all  this  non- 
sense, and  the  perfect  neglect  with  which  she  treated 
the  devoted,  overwhelming  passion  of  the  young  vis- 
count !     This  manner  struck  Charles  to  the  very  heart. 


wo 


WOMEN   AKE   FICKLE.- 


At  last,  to  his  great  relief,  the  mantua'makers  depart- 
ed, the  room  was  cleared,  and  Charles  exclaimed — « 

"  What  an  hour  of  agony  have  I  passed  !  Was  it 
done  purposely,  Henrietta?  Do  you  only  live  to  tor- 
ment me?" 

"  Why,  my  dear  friend  —  " 

Here  the  door  again  opened,  and  a  servant  an-- 
nounced  the  Baron  and  Baroness  de  Menval  and 
General  Derville.  Charles,  disappointed  and  enraged, 
flew  out  of  the  house.  One  day  had  he  lost,  and  one 
step  had  he  cor/te  nearer  to  his  grave.-  The  rest  of 
this  miserable  day  he  spent  in  gazing  at  the  rain,, 
which  fell  in  torrents,  writing  letters,  and  loading 
and  unloading  his  pistols. 

The  next  day,  at  one  o'clock,  he  rang  at  Madame 
de  Salignac's  door  —  she  Wsls  dressing  to  ride  in  the 
JBois  de  J3oylogjie.  The  next  day  he  tried  two 
o'clock  — the  lady  was  parking.  The  third  day,  at 
three  o'clock  —  the  countess  was  shopping.  Charles- 
had  not  foreseen  all  these  engagements.  His  ordy 
comfort  was  loading  and  unloading  his  pistols.  A 
few  days  now  remained.  "  I  will  Uy  every  day,"  he' 
gaid  ;  "  and  yet  when,  when  shall  I  f>nd  her  alone,  dis-^ 
engaged?  '^  The  unhappy  youth  wo-uld  tear  his  hair 
then  dress  himself  and  hurry  to- the  house,  iost  in  time 
to  see  her,  covered  with  jewels  and  japonicas,  glowing' 
with  beauty,  step  into  her  carriage  and  drive  off,  tcr 
delight  other  eyes,  gladden  other  hearts.  One  day  be- 
took it  in  his  head  to  go  there  in  the  afternoon.  He 
hoped  to  find  his  capri<^ious  love  just  returned  fronx 
the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  where,  having  been  flattered 
into  good  humor  by  the  compliments  of  her  numerous 
admirers,  and  her  heart  perhaps  softened  by  the  sight 
of  some  tender  lovers  enjoying  tetc-d-tete  amidst  the 
verdant  alleys,  he  hoped  to  find  her  more  disposed  to- 


WOMEN   AliE    PICKLE.  101 

fkvor  Ills  suit.  Tie  congratulated  himself  upon  tlii.-* 
happy  idea.  *'  Five  o'clock  !  "  he  cried  ;  "  that  is  the 
fated  hour.  At  six  I  shall  return  home  an  accepted 
lover."  And  he  fired  ofl'oiie  of  his  pistols.  Some  lurk- 
ing presentiment  induced  him  to  allow  the  other  to 
remain  loaded.  At  six  o'clock  he  came  back,  pale, 
haggard,  wretched.  He  had  found  the  countess 
stretched  out  on  a  sofa,  either  reading  or  pretending 
to  read.  He  painted  his  love,  and  wretched  state  of 
suspense,  in  the  most  touching  terms.  The  countess 
laughed,  turned  her  back,  and  wondered  why  dinner 
Was  so  long  coming;  and  when  he  urged  her  to  make 
him  happy,  she  in  return  urged  him  to  hasten  his  repast* 
Charles  rushed  out  of  the  room  in  a  fit  of  desperation. 

The  next  day  was  his  last,  and  Henrietta  had  invi-' 
t^d  him  to  attend  her  to  the  opera,  on  condition  of 
being  perfectly  silent  respecting  his  love.  He  made 
an  attempt,  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  to  see  her  ; 
but  she  was  dressing  for  the  opera.  Charles,  having 
seen  his  pistol  properly  loaded,  and  having  left  it  on 
his  table,  followed  his  capricious  but  lovely  mistress 
to  the  last  scene  of  amusement  he  expected  to  visit 
an  earth. 

But,  once  seated  by  her  side  in  the  brilliant  opera^ 
the  viscount  became  completely  absorbed  by  the 
music.  He  forgot  his  love  and  his  pistol,  and  intent 
Only  on  the  heroine  of  the  piece,  with  her  he  shed 
t6ars,  and  with  her  rejoiced,  till  all  recollection  of 
his  own  misfortunes  was  merged  in  his  delighted  ad- 
miration  of  the  pageant  before  him. 

When  Henrietta  perceived,  by  his  burning  cheeks 
and  kindling  eyes,  that  even  her  charms  for  the  present 
Were  disregarded,  she  took  the  alarm,  and  even  her 
flinty  nature  began  to  melt.  The  opera-house  had 
never  looked  so  brilliant,  the  ladies  never  so  lovely, 
89  beautiful'ly  dressed;  the  miisic  never  before  sounded 


102 


"WOMEN   RRE   FICKLE. 


SO  delightfully ;  the  dancers  had  never  displayed  such 
grace :  all  was  enchantment,  and  the  theme  of  every 
tongue  was  love. 

The  opera  out,  Charles  escorted  his  fair  cousin 
home.  As  he  took  her  hand  at  the  door,  he  felt  it 
slightly  tremble,  and  in  her  sweetest  tones  she  said, 
*^  Charles,  why  are  you  in  such  a  hurry  to  say  good 
night?    Will  you  not  come  in?  " 

"  It  is  near  midnight,  Henrietta,  and  this  is  a  fated 
hour." 

"  Why  so,  my  young  cousin  ?  Come,  walk  in,  and 
tell  me  why  it  is  you  dislike  the  pretty,  sentimental 
hour  of  midnight." 

As  she  finished  this  sentence,  Cliarles  found  him- 
self by  her  side  on  the  sofa  of  her  drawing-room. 

"Midnight,  fair  countess,"  he  said,  "is  the  hour 
of  crime.  People  steal  at  midnight,  fight  duels,  com- 
mit suicides  at  midnights.  Do  not  all  poets  call  mid- 
night the  hour  of  spectres,  of  crime,  of  terror  ?  and 
%vere  they  not  correct  in  doing  so  ?  " 

"  No,  Charles,  they  were  wrong.  For  poet,  read 
liar.  Tell  me,  then,  grave  Mentor,  at  what  hour  you 
young  men  leave  the  opera  or  the  theatre ;  at  what 
time  you  go  to  balls  and  concerts;  at  what  time  you 
fly  to  the  round  table,  and  empty  bottles  of  cham- 
pagne. Is  not  that  hour  midnight?  And  yet  mid- 
night, say  the  poets,  is  the  hour  of  crimes  and  hob- 
goblins. Fie,  fie,  Charles  ;  I  bet  you  are  only  in  such 
a  hurry  to  get  rid  of  me  this  evening  to  go  to  some 
supper-party." 

"  You  are  right,  madam  ;  I  am  going  to  a  supper- 
party." 

"And  you  dare  acknowledge  it?  And  you  dare 
admit  to  my  very  face,  that  you  prefer  a  supper-party 
to  my  company.  Ah,  then,  for  the  future  1  too  shall 
iiate  the  hour  of  midnight.     But  how  I  would  bless. 


"WOMEN   ARE    FICKLE  103 

how  I  would  cherish  the  hour,  when,  abandoning  for 
my  sake  the  follies  and  vanities  of  a  world  for  which 
you  were  never  made,  bidding  farewell  to  the  frivo- 
lous, dissipated  companions  of  your  lighter  hours,  you 
would  cast  yourself  at  my  feet,  and,  as  in  days  of  yore, 
shed  tears  on  my  hand,  vow  that  I  was  your  world, 
and  that  death,  instant  death  should  be  your  portion 
unless  I  smiled  upon  your  love.  That  hour  I  would 
indeed  bless  and  cherish,  Charles;  that,  tome,  would 
be  the  hour  of  unutterable  happiness." 

"  Henrietta,  dearest,  loveliest,  forgive  me.  I  knew 
not  what  I  said.  Midnight  is  in  truth  a  happy,  a  joy- 
ful hour.  1  must  have  been  mad,  more  than  mad. 
What!  dream  of  the  moniing,  the  afternoon,  when 
midnight,  dear  midnight,  was  before  me?  What! 
hope  to  woo  you  —  win  you,  in  the  very  midst  of  your 
adorers,  your  never-ceasing  engagements'?  I  was 
indeed  mad.  Withdraw  not  that  lily  hand,  my  own 
bright-eyed  love.  This  very  night,  Henrietta,  did  I 
mean  to  terminate  my  wretched  existence.  Even  now 
my  pistols  are  loaded ;  they  await  me." 

"Let  them  wait,  Charles,  let  them  wait.  Do  you 
think  I  would  abet  murder  ? " 

And  Charles  staid  ;  and  swiftly  did  the  hours  glide 
away,  while  the  viscount  listened  to  the  blushing  con- 
fessions of  Henrietta's  love,  and  her  dread  of  Matilda's 
censure. 

When  Marguerite  sought  her  lady  in  the  morning, 
she  found  the  lovers  still  tete-d-tetc  on  the  sofa,  bu- 
sied in  framing  a  letter  of  excuse  to  the  countess's 
fellow-hermit.  Her  waiting-maid  held  a  letter  in 
her  hand,  which  she  presented  to  her  mistress,  who 
crimsoned  to  the  very  temples  when  she  recognized 
the  hand-writing  of  Matilda. 

But  alas,  alas!  we  live  in  a  world  of  dreams 
and  illusions;  we  live  in   a   world   where   truth   i& 


104  LOVE   IN    THE    OLDEN   TIME. 

but  a  transient  guest,  where  man  lingers  but  an 
instant,  and  where  every  day  oifers  but  a  contra- 
diction to  its  predecessor.  The  first  page  of  Ma- 
tilda's letter  v/as  filled  with  dark,  philosophical  re- 
flections ;  the  next  was  wet  with  tears ;  and  in  the 
third  page  she  implored  the  countess's  pardon,  but  as- 
sured her  the  plan  of  the  Hermitage  was  a  perfect 
absurdity,  and  could  not  be  carried  into  execution; 
because,  on  the  very  next  Sunday,  a  young  and  intel- 
ligent lawyer,  in  their  neighborhood,  was  to  lead  her 
to  the  hymeneal  altar.  Alas,  alas  !  women  were,  are, 
will  be,  fickle. 


LOVE  IN  THE  OLDEN  TIME. 

The  Lady  Eveleyn  Seton,  of  Seton  Manor,  was 
young,  beautiful,  rich,  and  an  orphan.  Too  young 
to  join  in  the  gay  revels  of  a  court,  she  was  still  im- 
mured within  her  ancient  halls,  under  the  watchful  eye 
of  her  aunt  the  Lady,  Alice ;  and  though  retired  from  the 
society  of  the  age  in  which  they  lived,  many  were  the 
suitors  aspiring  to  the  hand  of  the  fair  Eveleyn.  One 
alone  appeared  slighdy  favored :  he  was  the  young 
Sir  Hugh  de  Gasconville,  the  most  finished  courtier 
and  accomplished  knight  under  the  banners  of  Rich- 
ard Cceur  de  Lion ;  but  Lady  Eveleyn  was  fickle  —  she 
inherited  all  the  pride  of  the  Setons,  and  took  more 
delight  in  gazing  at  the  grim  array  of  her  warrior  an- 
cestors in  the  gallery  of  family  portraits,  than  in  lis- 
tening to  the  courtly  phrases  and  laughing  tones  of 
Sir  Hugh. 

*'  I  would  I  could  win  thy  love,  fair  Lady  Eveleyn." 
said  the  knight,  one  day,  as  they  paced  the  gallery  to- 


LOVE    IN    THE    OLDEN   TIME.  105 

gether,  (Lady  Alice  actmg  propriety  in  the  dis- 
tance.) *' Three  years  have  I  wooed  thee,  yet  still 
thou  art  unrelenting  :  bid  me  serve  thee ;  bid  me 
perform  a  task,  any  thing  to  win  thee." 

"  Nay,"  replied  Eveleyn,  "  I  impose  no  tasks  —  I 
doubt  the^  not;  and  yet  —  'twere  well  to  try  thee, 
methinksr— look  round  thee.  Sir  Hugh;  look  at  my 
soldier  ancestors,  all  of  whom  were  great  in  arms  and 
famed  for  deeds  of  prowess  :  thinkest  thou  that  the 
last  of  the  Setons  would  wed  with  a  —  a —  a  stripling 

kniofht,  whose  sword  has  never  left  its  scabbard  — 

» 
whose  brow  has  never  faced  a  battle  —  whose  arm, 

perchance,  might  fail  before — " 

"  Stop,  lady,"  said  Sir  Hugh,  indignantly.  "  I  hear^ 
I  understand  thee  ;  thou  shalt  see  that  Hugh  de  Gascon- 
ville  owns  no  craven  heart ;  I  thought  not,  with  these 
high  feelings  of  thine  own,  thou  wouldst  have  kept 
me  so  long  tamely  captive  in  thy  train  !  " 
-  *' Silence,  Sir  Hugh,"  exclaimed  Eveleyn,  in  her 
turn  roused  ;  "  thou  art  forgetting  thyself;  we  would 
be  alone." 

She  waved  her  hand  —  it  was  enough.  The  knight 
bowed  low,  and  springing  on  his  horse,  dashed  furi- 
ously past  the  windows,  and  was  out  of  sight. 

The  flower  of  the  French  nobility  were  enjoying  the 
gayest  tournament  that "  la  belle  France  "  had  ever  wit- 
nessed, when  an  unknown  knight  entered  the  lists  and 
challenged  the  victor  of  the  day  to  single  combat.  He 
was  tall,  slightly  made,  well  armed,  and  well  mounted ; 
and  a  murmur  of  astonishment  went  round  as  he  bent 
his  plumed  head  before  the  royal  canopy ;  but  the 
murmur  rose  to  a  prolonged  shout  of  approbation  whea 
the  lance  of  the  stranger  rang  on  the  breast  of  his  op- 
ponent, and  hurled  him  to  the  ground. 

After  assisting  the  fallen  knight  to  rise,  the  stran- 
ger advanced  slowly  and  gracefully  towards  the  plat* 


106 


LOVE   IN   THE    OLDEN   TIME. 


form  from  whence  the  prize  was  presented,  and  receiv- 
ing on  the  point  of  his  lance  the  chaplet  and  scarf, 
with  a  low  obeisance  he  turned,  and  was  gone  before 
the  vanquished  had  time  to  recover  his  seat  or  his 
senses.  Who  could  the  stranger  knight  be,  save 
Sir  Hugh  de  Gasconville? 

When  the  drawbridge  of  Seton  Manor  was  lowered 
for  Sir  Hugh,  and  the  stately  turrets  burst  on  his  sight, 
a  thrill  of  fearful  expectation  curled  through  his  veins. 
The  pink  and  silver  scarf  of  France  floated  on  his 
shoulder,  and  the  chaplet  of  pale  roses,  now  withered, 
hung  on  his  arm  as  he  reined  in  his  charger  at  the  gate, 
and  dismounting,  paced  through  the  vestibule,  which 
opened  into  the  withdrawing  rooms.  He  heard  Lady 
Eveleyn's  voice,  and  the  knight  paused.  Three  weeks 
had  passed  since  he  left  those  rooms  in  anger ;  and 
remembering  his  parting  scene,  he  dreaded  the  recep- 
tion he  might  meet.  Suddenly  he  entered,  and  on  his 
bended  knee,  laid  the  trophies  at  Lady  Eveleyn's  feet. 

"  So,  Sir  Hugh!"  exclaimed  the  beauty,  with  the 
faintest  blush  in  the  world,  "  thou  art  returned  — 
whither  hast  thou  been?  The  Lady  Alice  thought 
that  thou  hadst  forgotten  the  road  to  Seton  Manor." 

*'  And  thou,  Eveleyn,"  said  the  knight,  "  didst  thou 
not  think  of  me  ?  " 

^'  In  truth,  I  seldom  think,  since  thinking  spoils  the 
countenance  ;  but  whither  hast  thou  been,  and  what 
are  these  —  the  chaplet  and  the  scarf?  " 

^'  Ladye  Love,  I  have  journeyed  to  France,  and  these 
are  the  trophies  won  by  my  poor  arm  at  its  latest  tour- 
nament." 

"  And  wherefore  hast  thou  laid  them  at  my  feet,  Sir 
Hugh  ? " 

"  To  win  a  boon,"  whispered  De  Gasconville. 

''  What  wouldst  thou? "  said  the  lady,  coloring  deep- 
ly;  "  what  is  the  boon  ? " 


LOTE    IN    THE    OLDEN    TIME.  107 

"  Eveleyn !  hast  thou  so  soon  forgotten  ?  " 

*'  Are  the  ladies  of  France  fair,  Sir  Hugh  1 " 

"  I  saw  them  not,  seeing  only  thee  before  mine  eyes, 
lady." 

'*  Thou  hast  learnt  courtesy,"  smiled  Eveleyn;  "but 
tell  me,  didst  thou  break  a  lance  or  lose  a  charger  — 
or  —  or — gain  a  wound  in  this  same  tournament?" 

*'  Nay,  lady  ;  but  I  unhorsed  a  bold  crusader." 

Lady  Eveleyn  curled  her  lip.  *'  Methinks,  Sir  Hugh, 
that  were  mere  sport,  since  not  a  drop  of  thy  brave 
blood  was  spilt." 

Sir  Hugh  started.  The  lady  continued  —  **  Me- 
thinks, likewise,  that  a  faded  chaplet  and  a  worn  scarf 
were  unsightly  gifts  for  thy  Ladye  Love!  —  No,  no, 
Sir  Knight ;  when  Eveleyn  Seton  weds,  it  must  be 
with  one  worthy  of  her  hand  ;  when  Seton  Manor  owns 
a  master,  it  must  be  one  who  will  not  disgrace  its  an- 
cient halls!" 

*' Eveleyn!"  exclaimed  the  knight,  grasping  his 
sword,  "  I  know  thee  not  in  this  strange  mood  —  it  ia 
enough  —  when  I  am  gone,  think  on  thy  words  —  no 
longer  shall  Hugh  de  Gasconville  disgrace  thine  an- 
cient halls  !  I  have  loved  thee,  Eveleyn,  but  for  thy- 
self alone  !  I  have  wooed  thee,  but  not  for  thy  gold  !  " 

"  Nay,  Hugh,  dear  Hugh,  thou  art  too  serious ;  I 
but  meant — " 

"  It  matters  not  now,  lady  ;  thy  words  are  traced  in 
fire  on  my  heart ;  not  because  thi/  loved  lips  pro- 
nounced them,  but  because  others  heard  thee  scorn 
me ;  the  day  may  come  when  I  may  be  worthy  of 
thee  —  till  then,  Eveleyn,  farewell !  " 

"  Nay,  stop!  one  word!  "  cried  Evelgyn ;  but  she 
was  too  late:  ere  the  tears  could  burst  from  her  eyes, 
Sir  Hugh  de  Gasconville  and  his  good  charger  were 
skirting  the  distant  hills ;  ere  another  moment  could 
fly,  he  was  lost  to  her  sight ;  and  sinking  on  her  *eat, 


•  108  LOTE   m   THE    OlDEW   TIME, 

the  Lady  Eveleyn  Seton  exclaimed,  in  the  bitterness 
of  repentance,  "  He  is  gone,  and  I  have  lost  the  traest 
heart  that  ever  knight  proffered  to  Ladye  Love !  " 

The  Christian  army,  under  Cceur  de  Lion,  set  out 
for  the  Holy  Land,  and  amongst  their  glittering  num- 
bers appeared  Sir  Hugh  de  Gasconville.  It  vv^ere  vain 
to  repeat  the  trials  and  hardships  they  endured ;  it  is 
enough  that,  after  a  few  years  of  toil,  the  few  who  es- 
caped with  their  lives  returned  to  their  native  land ; 
and  of  them  was  reckoned  Sir  Hugh ;  but  he  was 
changed.  The  tall,  proud  youth  was  covered  with 
"wounds,  worn,  subdued,  ill,  and  melancholy ;  yet  his 
first  thought  was  of  Eveleyn  Seton.  He  faltered  in 
asking  after  her  whom  he  loved  ;  but  a  wild  sensation 
of  mingled  pleasure  and  pain  awoke  in  his  breast  on 
finding  that  she  was  still  alive,  well,  and  Eveleyn 
Seton. 

His  determination  was  taken  ;  he  would  see  her  once 
more ;  and  just  as  the  summer's  sun  set  behind  the 
Yorkshire  Hills,  Sir  Hugh  de  Gasconville  rang  the 
great  bell  of  Seton  Manor. 

He  found  Eveleyn  surrounded  by  her  attendants. 

"  Thou  art  a  soldier  and  a  crusader,"  said  she, 
bending;  "and  thou  art  welcome  to  our  castle;  but 
who  art  thou  ?  " 

*'  Lady,"  began  Sir  Hugh. 

''  Ah !  "  shrieked  Eveleyn,  *'  I  know  thee !  Hugh ! 
dear  Hugh,  welcome,  welcome  home!" 

"It  is  I  indeed,  lady,  but  sadly,  sorely  changed; 
I  cannot  kneel  to  thee  now ;  I  may  not  offer  thee  the 
strength  of  this  arm,  for  it  is  helpless;  I  cannot  stand 
before  thee  without  the  stay  of  my  good  lance ;  yet  would 
I  see  thee  once  again.    May  I  speak  with  thee  alone  ? 

"  Eveleyn,"  said  the  knight,  as  he  lifted  his  plumed 
helmet  off,  "  thou  seest  me  ! " 

"  I  hear  thee,  Hugh  ;  it  is  enough  1 " 


THE   MUFFLED   PRIEST.  109 

"  Nay,  raise  thine  eyes ;  thou  seest  but  the  wreck  of 
Hugh  de  GasGonville;  and  conscious  that,  though  his 
hand  has  been  soaked  in  the  blood  of  the  enemy,  and 
though  lances  have  been  broken  and  sabres  bent  on 
his  body,  I  am  still  unworthy  of  thee,  I  come,  faint, 
wounded,  and  disabled,  to  bid  thee  a  long,  last  fare- 
well !  " 

*'  Then  thou  lovest  me  no  longer,  Hugh  !  "  cried 
Eveleyn. 

"  Better  than  life,"  replied  the  knight ;  "  yet  thinkest 
thou  I  am  one  to  win  woman's  love  ?  " 

**  Yes ! "  exclaimed  Eveleyn,  throwing  her  arm 
round  the  lance  on  which  he  leant ;  "  say  no  more  ;  I 
am  still  thine  in  heart.  Though  thou  art  wounded, 
'twas  in  a  noble  cause.  Thou  hast  fought  long  and 
bravely.  Though  disabled,  thou  art  not  dishonored. 
In  future  this  arm  shall  be  thy  stay,  and  if  thou  wilt, 
Hugh,  mine  own  Hugh,  this  hand  shall  be  thy  well- 
won  prize! " 

"  Won,  won!  "  murmured  the  now  exhausted  Sir 
Hugh,  '*  and  lost,  lost,  as  soon  as  won." 


THE    MUFFLED    PRIEST. 

The  aisles  of  the  chapel,  lately  thronged  with  many 
worshippers,  were  silent.  The  sounds  of  prayer  which 
had  echoed  through  the  groined  roof,  were  hushed. 
The  assembly  which  had  knelt  in  solemn,  but  erro- 
neous devotion,  had  disappeared;  and  the  stone 
image  —  the  senseless  object  of  their  adoration  — 
smiled  grimly  in  the  gloomy  loneliness,  as  his  chis- 


110 


THE   MUrFLED   PBIEST 


eled  features  displayed  themselves  in  the  temple  erect- 
ed by  superstitious  wealth  to  his  service. 

But  one  individual  remained,  —  a  long  robe  of  som- 
bre hue  concealed  his  person,  —  who  leaned,  as  if  in 
deep  thought,  against  the  pedestal  on  which  stood  the 
deity.     He  was  the  priest. 

A  long  shadow  was  cast  on  the  floor,  and  instantly 
afterward  a  tall,  gaunt  figure  appeared  at  the  door. 
A  mantle  of  spotless  white  overhung  his  shoulders, 
scarcely  concealing  his  broad  and  ample  chest.  The 
erectness  of  his  carriage,  the  dignity  of  his  attitude, 
the  fire  of  his  eye,  the  boldness  of  his  step,  and  the 
proud  curl  upon  his  lip,  proclaimed  him  to  be  a 
man  of  ambition. 

A  contemptuous  sneer  played  upon  his  countenance 
as  he  cast  his  eyes  about  the  sanctuary ;  he  glanced 
toward  the  stern  deity  itself,  as  its  deformed  features 
seemed  to  assume  an  expression  of  indignation  at  the 
audacity  of  the  intruder.  The  stranger  then  turned 
toward  the  altar,  on  which,  in  a  golden  vase  richly 
studded  with  jewels,  burned  an  offering  of  frankin- 
cense, emitting  a  pale  blue  smoke,  which  rose  and 
festooned  from  pillar  to  pillar,  disseminating  its  per- 
fume through  the  adjacent  space.  None  of  these, 
however,  seemed  to  produce  either  awe  or  respect 
in  the  mind  of  the  Roman;  for,  striding  past  the 
shrine,  he  cried  — 

"Priest!  dost  sleep?" 

The  individual  whom  he  addressed  slowly  turned 
his  head,  muttered,  "  'Tis  he !  "  then,  drawing  his 
robe  more  closely  about  him,  answered  — 

"No,  I  sleep  not.  The  priest  of  this  deity  is  not 
as  other  men  ;    he  needs  no  sleep." 

"  Cease  this  folly,"  cried  the  senator  impatient- 
ly;  "  well  I  know  all  tricks  and  juggles  of  thy  craft; 
■ave   thy  precious   trash  to  dose  the   vulgar;    re* 


THE   MUFFLED    PRIEST.  Ill 

serve  thy  lectures  for  the  fools  who   kneel    to   this 

thing  of  stone  !  " 

•'Beware!  rash  man,"  returned  the  priest, ''how, 
in  the  sanctity  of  this  house,  you  brave  his  ven- 
geance :  what  thou  think'st  stone  may  possess  powef 
to  strike  terror  to  even'^hy  stubborn  heart." 

**  Forbear  this  idle  talk  !  "  exclaimed  the  other. 

"Idle  talk!"  repeated  the  priest,  with  deep  solem- 
nity of  manner ;  "■  obdurate  as  thou  art,  this  deity, 
through  me,  can  disclose  that  would  make  thee  trem- 
ble !  " 

"I  would  fain  witness  the  skill  of  which  thou  vaunt- 
est,"  said  the  senator,  in  a  more  serious  manner  ;  for 
he  was  unconsciously  imbibing  a  portion  of  the  awe 
which  pervaded  the  place. 

"  Thou  shalt  be  gratified,"  remarked  the  priest : 
*'  what  I  now  tell,  thou  think'st  buried  in  thine  own 
bosom,  unknown  by  others :  if  I  disclose  it  to  thee, 
doubt  not  that  he  who  presides  here  can  read  the 
hearts  of  all  who  approach  him,  whether  to  worship 
or  to  scoff," 

"  Proceed,  proceed  !  "  cried  the  other. 

*'  Twenty  years  since,  Armenius,  thou  wert  a  gen- 
eral, the  commander  of  a  legion  —  " 

"  Well  done  for  the  omniscience  of  thy  god !  "  cried 
the  Roman,  jeeringly.  ''My  many  triumphs  have 
chronicled  the  truth  of  thy  remarks  in  the  archives  of 
the  republic.     Is  this  thy  wonder?" 

"Interrupt  me  not,"  answered  the  priest,  calmly; 
"  when  I  finish,  speak  what  words  thou'st  mind  ;  till 
then,  listen.  —  Twenty  years  since,  when  thou  wert  a 
general,  thou  hadst  a  friend  —  ha!  start'st  thou  now  ? 
Twenty  years  since,  I,  too,  had  a  friend ;  but  I  do 
not  tremble.  Thy  friend  loved  thee,  served  thee, 
and  shared  his  all  with  thee.  Through  his  high 
mfluence,    when    accused    before   the    senate,    thou 


113  THE   MUrrLED   PRIEST. 

Bav'dst  thy  name,  thy  honor,  and  thy  life.  Although 
thy  junior,  thou  sought'st  him  for  advice,  and  using 
it,  didst  bind  thy  brow  with  the  laurels  of  victory. 
When  surrounded  by  barbarians,  and  the  pilum,  taken 
from  one  of  thine  own  band,  was  hurled  at  thee,  his 
buckler  warded  off  the  well-directed  blow.  But  "  — 
and  his  manner  became  more  impressive,  his  voice 
more  melodious  —  "that  friend,  alas  !  loved  an  Italian 
girl,  soft,  pure,  and  lovely  as  the  sky  which  arches 
over  her  native  land.  —  See,  thou  start' st  again  1  Did  I 
not  tell  thee  I  would  make  thee  tremble?  —  Yes,  he 
loved  the  girl,  not  with  the  vile  feelings  which  tempt- 
ed thee  to  gaze  upon  her  charms,  and  admire  her  for 
them  alone.  His  fondness  was  for  herself,  her  rich, 
angelic  mind,  more  than  even  her  dazzling  beauty. 
Treacherously  thou  strov'st  to  supplant  him  in  her 
affections  by  the  splendor  of  military  rank,  knowing, 
as  he  had  confided  to  thee,  that  their  vows  had  been 
exchanged.  Thou  found'st  thy  arts  useless,  and 
didst  change  thy  love  to  hatred.  The  girl  became 
thy  friend's  wife,  when  thou,  falsely  accusing  him 
of  crime,  didst  use  thy  power  to  tear  him  from  her 
arms,  sell  him  into  bondage,  confiscate  his  proper- 
ty, and  strike  his  name  from  the  list  of  citizens.  His 
wife  survived  her  miseries  but  a  year,  while  thou 
didst  return  to  the  capital  loaded  with  the  spoils  of 
the  enemy.  Yet,  with  the  red-hot  hand  of  guilt 
grasping  thy  conscience,  and  even  now,  proud  and  os- 
tentatious before  the  world,  the  god  tells  me  in  thy 
chamber  thou'rt  a  coward  —  starting,  in  alarm,  if  the 
least  noise  breaks  on  the  midnight." 

"  Who  art  thou  that  dost  know  all  this?"  cried  the 
Roman,  in  evident  alarm. 

"  I  am  the  priest,"  answered  the  other,  "  who  can 
unnerve  even  the  Roman  senator  !  " 

A  paleness  overspreid  the  face  of  Armenius,  as  he 


THE    MUFFLED    PRIEST.  113 

looked  first  on  the  graven  image,  and  then  on  his  ora- 
cle, but,  by  a  violent  exertion,  resuming  his  wonted 
carelessness  of  demeanor,  he  said  — 

"Well,  if  it  is  so,  let  it  rest  —  though  'tis  all  false, 
a-s  thou  hast  said,  yet  here  is  a  purse ;  I  present  it  to 
thy  god  or  thee;  I  suppose  it's  the  same  thing;  I  will 
to-morrow  add  another.  He  may  be  all  thou'st  repre- 
sented him;  but  I  believe  neither  in  stocks  nor 
stones  —  however,  I  have  an  object;  but  first,  priest, 
canst  thou  keep  a  secret  1 " 

*'  Why  ask?  have  I  not  formerly  done  so  for  thee  ?  " 

"  'Tis  true  ;  but  this  is  of  more  importance." 

"  So  shall  my  lips  be  surer  guarded." 

"  Priest,  I  am  rich  !  " 

*'  Thy  gifts  to  me  have  proved  it." 

"I  am  bountiful!" 

*'  Yonder  jewelled  vase  attests  it." 

"  Well,  then,  I  will  trust  thee ;  serve  me  well,  and 
I  will  erect  a  sanctuary  to  thy  deity  the  proudest  in 
Rome." 

"  My  ears  are  open,  and  my  heart  prepared  to  bury 
thy  words,"  said  the  priest. 

"  'Tis  this,"  continued  Armenius.  "  The  proud 
Augustus,  our  new  censor,  is  about  to  make  himself 
prince  of  the  senate,  and  I  would  thwart  him.  I  have 
no  line  of  noble  ancestors  on  whom  to  base  my 
claims ;  it  is  superstition  must  aid  me ;  that  thou 
canst  command.  Thy  temple  is  the  resort  of  the 
rich  and  poor  of  the  city  —  of  the  high  and  the  low; 
by  thy  aid,  and  that  of  yonder  stone,  my  desires  may 
be  accomplished;  if  thou  wilt,  and  I  succeed  in  my 
designs,  I  swear  to  keep  my  promise." 

The  priest  consented ;  when,  the  two  having  con- 
certed measures  for  the  furtherance  of  their  scheme, 
the  aspiring  senator  withdrew;  while  the  priest, 
drawing  aside  a  veil,  entered  an  inner  apartment,  and 
8 


114  THE   MUrrLED   PRIEST. 

the   shades  of  night   enveloped   the    capital   of  the 
world. 

The  multitudinous  noises  of  the  gay  metropolis 
had  subsided,  the  twilight  had  passed  away,  and  the 
moon  shone  brightly  in  the  cloudless  firmament  — 
'twas  midnight. 

Each  pillar  reared  its  graceful  capital  distinct  in 
the  silvery  flood  which  illumined  the  earth  with  near- 
ly the  brilliancy  of  sunshine,  save  where  its  rays  were 
caught  and  reflected  back  by  the  pale  marble  which 
rose,  in  tasteful  intercolumniation,  around  the  prince- 
ly mansion  of  Armenius. 

One  object  only  gave  animation  to  the  scene;  and 
even  he  appeared  scarcely  living,  for  in  the  darkness 
of  a  deep  shadow  he  stood  as  if  transfixed,  and  made 
no  motion;  save  now  and  then  the  hand,  which  was 
laid  upon  his  breast,  would  contract,  as  if  with 
nervous  action. 

Another  figure  is  added  to  the  scene  —  she  glides 
on  tiptoe,  and  rapidly  flies  to  meet  the  youth;  she 
throws  herself  into  his  arms  —  his  lips  meet  hers — • 
the  sudden  transport  of  delight,  the  impassioned  em- 
brace declares  them  to  be  lovers. 

Stealing  noiselessly  into  the  deeper  shade  of  an 
adjacent  wall,  they  are  concealed  from  every  eye  save 
that  of  Him  who  cannot  look  upon  such  love,  so  pure, 
so  fervid,  and  so  disinterested,  but  with  pity  on  the 
sad  fate  which  separates  them. 

"  Agricola,  love,"  whiuspered  the  maid,  "have I  lin- 
gered too  long  from  thee  ?  Thou  wist  forgive  me;  it 
was  to  avoid  detection  that  I  tarried." 

The  youth  seized  her  tapering  fingers  in  his  own, 
and  pressed  them  to  his  bosom. 

*'  No,  love,"  he  cried,  pressing  her  hands  to  his 
lipSp  and  bathing  them  in  the  sea  of  agony  which  was 


THE    MUFFLKD    PRIEST.  115 

rushing  from  his  eyes,  "  no ;  alas !  thou  hast  not  lin- 
gered long  enough;  would  that  thou  hadst  never 
come!" 

"  Say  not  so,  Agricola.  Wherefore  dost  thou 
weep  thus?"  she  inquired,  soothingly. 

*'  Because,"  he  replied,  "this  is  the  last  time  that 
we  meet,  Sylvia;  and  may  I  not  consecrate  it  by  a 
tear,  as  one  of  fond  remembrance  ? " 

"The  last,  Agricola!"  sobbed  the  tender  girl; 
*'  O,  name  it  not ;  we  never  will  part  again." 

"  Alas  !  what  wouldst  thou  ?  " 

*' Live  with  thee;  die  with  thee;  Sylvia  would  be 
thy  wife." 

"  No,  no ! "  exclaimed  the  youth,  as  the  pang  of 
grief  darted  through  his  soul;  "  no,  Sylvia,  it  may  not 
be!" 

"  Then,"  said  she,  reprovingly,  "  thou  dost  not  love 
me,  or  thou  wouldst  not  cast  me  off." 

"  Love  you  ! "  cried  he ;  "  it  is  that  I  love  too  well, 
to  —  " 

**  Then  why  not  listen  to  my  prayer  ?  " 

"  Alas  !  it  is  that  I  love  too  deeply  !  " 

*'No,"  cried  the  girl,  "  no,  Agricola;  didst  thou 
love  like  me,  like  me  adore,  thou  wouldst  cast  aside 
these  fears." 

"Fears!"  repeated  the  youth,  dropping  his  hand, 
and  flashing  a  fire  from  his  eye,  which  illumined  the 
space  about  them;  ''fears,  Sylvia!  thou  dost  not 
know  me.  To  me  fear  is  a  stranger.  'Tis  not  that 
which  influences  me;  but  recollect,  girl  —  Agricola 
is  a  slave  !  " 

The  momentary  sternness  which  he  had  assumed 
did  not,  however,  damp  the  ardor  of  the  girl  ;  it 
seemed  to  render  him  still  dearer  to  her.  She  placed 
her  fragile  arm  about  his  manly  neck,  and  in  a  tone 
of  gentle  reproach,  "Rebuke  me  not,  my  love,"  sho 


UQ 


THE   MITFTLED   PRIEST. 


said ;  "  thou  know'st,  if  Agricola  is  a  slave,  Sylvia 
would  share  his  bondage.  Her  love  would  make  his 
slavery  sweeper  far  than  freedom." 

"  Desist,  I  pray  thee,"  responded  the  youth,  encir- 
cling her  waist  with  his  arm,  with  respectful  tender- 
ness, and  softening  his  tone;  "remember  your  father 
is  a  Roman  !  " 

"  Cruel  as  thou  art,  I  still  will  love  thee,"  she  whis- 
pered through  her  tears;  "none  but  thee  I  live  or 
care  for.  My  father's  wrath  I  heed  not,  so  that  I 
possess  thee;  I  care  —  " 

"  Hist !  "  said  her  lover,  as  he  carefully  leaned  to- 
ward the  spot  they  had  just  quitted.  "  When  last  we 
met,  I  heard  a  noise  like  that  which  just  struck  upon 
my  ear.     Sylvia,  away !  " 

"  Never,"  cried  the  girl,  filled  with  love's  des- 
peration, and  clinging  more  closely  to  him,  "  never 
till  thou'st  promised.  I  will  die  with  thee,  Agricola, 
but  will  not  lose  thee  !  " 

A  faint  noise  resembling  a  footfall  broke  on  the  si- 
lence, as  Agricola  strove  to  disengage  himself  from 
the  virgin,  who  twined  her  arms  wildly  about  his 
neck. 

"  Begone,  Sylvia,  I  beseech  !  " 

"  Till  you  promise,  never !  "  she  articulated,  nearly 
choked  with  emotion. 

Again  the  noise  was  heard.  If  they  were  discov- 
ered, ruin  would  befall  the  idol  of  his  heart,  and  he 
be  degraded  by  the  lash.  A  moment  more,  it  would 
be  too  late :  he  put  his  lips  to  her  ear. 

"  I  promise." 

In  the  next  instant  the  light  form  of  the  maid  was 
lost  among  the  columns,  and  her  lover,  looking  hasti- 
ly about,  saw  the  shadow,  evidently  that  of  a  man, 
cast  on  the  pavement  near  him  ;  but  so  instantaneous 
was  the  disappearance  that  it  had  vanished  ere  he  was 


THE    MUFFLED    PRIEST.  117 

fully  aware  of  the  reality.  He  kneeled,  and  placed 
his  ear  on  the  stones;  but  all  was  silent,  save  the 
short  beating  of  his  heart. 

The  immovable  features  of  the  pagan  idol  were 
dimly  visible  in  the  breakuigday  that  stole  through  tne 
portico  of  his  temple,  while,  equally  inflexible,  the  priest 
sat  at  his  feet,  his  face  hid  in  the  ample  folds  of  his 
mantle,  presenting  only  ihe  undefined  outlines  of  a 
man. 

As  the  gray  haze  of  morning  yielded  to  the  strength- 
ening dawn,  the  senator,  with  a  deep  frown  settled  on 
his  brow,  walked  in,  and  saluted  the  priest,  who  rose 
to  receive  him. 

"  Why  here,  and  so  early?"  demanded  the  latter^ 
"  I  could  effect  nothing  in  the  short  period  since  we 
parted  yesterday." 

"  'Tis  not  for  that  I  sought  thee,"  answered  his 
visitor. 

"Then  why  this  visit?"  returned  the  priest. 

"  For  vengeance  !  " 

"Thou  shalt  have  it,"  replied  the  priest,  gathering 
his  robe  about  him. 

"  Thou  know'st  not  what  I  mean,  foolish  priest." 

"Still  thou  shalt  have  vengeance;"  and  a  dry 
cough,  like  a  death  rattle,  sounded  in  the  throat  of 
the  priest  —  it  might  have  been  a  laugh. 

"  Silence,"  said  the  senator,  sternly,  laying  his 
clinched  hand  upon  the  altar;  "the  new-made  laws 
have  deprived  us  of  our  innate  right  to  punish  our 
slaves  with  death;  yet  I  have  a  slave  who  must 
die!" 

An  involuntary  shudder  passed  over  the  heathen 
priest ;  but  he  pulled  his  robe  more  closely  about 
him,  and  the  start  passed  unobserved.  Armenius 
continued  — 


118  THE  SITJFFLED   PBIEST. 

'^  I  have  a  niece,  my  brother's  daughter.  She  lives 
with  me,  my  adopted  child.  This  slave  has  dared  to 
love  her.  I  could  let  that  pass ;  but  she,  the  daughter 
of  a  free-born  son  of  Rome,  forgetting  her  birth,  re- 
turns his  passion.  I  heard  her  swear  it  to  him  at  the 
last  midnight.  That  seals  his  doom,  and  the  slave 
shall  die !  Were  it  not  that  suspicion  resting  on  me 
might  blight  my  brilliant  hopes,  this  hand  had  done 
the  deed;  but  I  am  unused  to  tricks;  I  leave  it  to 
thee;  thy  trade  is  craftiness,  and  thou  canst  lull  sus- 
picion. That's  but  thy  fee,"  he  said,  casting  a  bag 
of  gold  upon  the  altar;  "mv  reward  shall  make  thee 
rich !  " 

" 'Tis  well,"  muttered  the  priest:  *' how  calFst 
thou  thy  slave?" 

*'  Agricola." 

The  sudden  start  and  half  word  which  escaped  the 
priest  caught  the  other's  attention. 

"Why  start'st  thou?"  he  demanded. 

"  I  started,"  answered  the  priest,  recovering  him- 
self, and  stretching  forth  an  arm  much  withered  and 
shrunken,  "  because  this  hand  was  never  dipped  in 
blood." 

"  A  wise  priest,"  said  the  senator,  scornfully.  *'  I 
see  thy  object;  well,  be  it  so ;  "  and  he  threw  another 
purse  upon  the  altar. 

"  Thy  words  must  be  my  law,"  said  the  priest,  in  a 
low  tone;  *' but  away!  the  people  come  to  wor- 
ship." 

The  senator  cast  a  searching  glance  on  the  muffled 
face  of  the  priest ;  he  drew  his  robe  about  him,  and, 
casting  a  disdainful  look  on  the  throng  which  now 
commenced  kneeling  about  the  image,  left  the  chapel. 

When  the  worshippers  had  concluded  their  devo- 
tions, they  retired ;  and  soon  the  priest  was  left  alone 
with  one  person  who  still  knelt  at  the    altar.     The 


THE    MUFFLED    PRIEST.  119 

priest  having  carefully  fastened  the  doors,  the  devotee 
arose,  and  casting  aside  the  gray  mantle  which  dis- 
guised him,  exhibited  the  fine  form  of  Agricola,  the 
slave. 

"  Father,"  said  he,  "  I  crave  thy  blessing.  Thou 
hast  ever  been  kind  to  Agricola;  but  he  is  poor,  and 
ail  that  he  can  return  he  now  presents  to  thee  —  the 
love  that  springs  from  his  heart." 

"  'Tis  all  I  ask,"  cried  the  priest,  casting  aside  his 
mantle  and  embracing  him  ;  "  the  love  of  the  good  is 
the  greatest  treasure.  But,  my  son,  thou  hast  foiled  in 
confidence  to  me,  and  dangers  beset  thy  path  ranged 
thicker  than  the  pikes  of  the  Macedonians." 

Agricola  blushed,  and  sank  his  head  upon  hi? 
breast. 

"  It  is  true,"  he  replied,  "  that  I  have  not  told  thee 
all;   but  now  —  " 

"Mind  it  not  now  —  I  know  all!"  The  youth 
glanced  incredulously  into  his  face,  when  the  priest, 
taking  his  hand,  continued,  "  Yes,  all  —  thou  lov'st 
thy  master's  adopted  daughter,  and  she  returns  thy 
love.     Is  it  not  so  ?  " 

*'  Alas  !  alas  !  too  rightly  hast  thou  said,"  answered 
the  young  man,  despondingly. 

*'  Say  not  alas  !  "  cried  the  priest,  his  eyes  bright- 
ening with  delight;  "  she  shall  be  thy  wife!" 

"My  wife!"  repeated  Agricola,  retiring  a  few 
paces,  regarding  the  other  with  astonishment,  "  and  I 
a  slave  ! " 

"  Fear  not !  if  thou  wouldst  be  happy,  obey  me. 
At  midnight  f]y  hither  with  thy  bride,  and  I  will 
unite  thee." 

"  But  remember,"  said  the  youth,  tortured  with 
many  conflicting  emotions,  "the  populace  will  slay 
thee  if  thou  dost  unite  a  slave  to  a  free-born  girl." 


120  THE   MUFFLED   PRIEST. 

"  Leave  that  to  me.  Obey  my  instructions.  — 
Now  away  !  return  at  midnight." 

At  the  same  hour  as  on  the  previous  morning,  Ar- 
menius  repeated  his  visit;  biit  the  priest  met  him  at 
the  ahar,  and,  as  he  was  about  to  speak,  said  in  a 
bolder  tone  than  he  had  hitherto  used  — 

'*  The  deity  hath  spoken  of  thee  !  " 

"Hast  thou  punished  the  slave?"  demanded  Ar- 
menius,  eagerly. 

•*  First  must  I  relate  the  words  of  the  god  I  serve, 
then  to  thy  question." 

*'  Be  speedy  with  thy  fooleries,"  said  Armenius, 
haughtily.  "  I  have  weighty  business  to-day,  and  few 
moments  to  spare." 

"  Last  night,"  said  the  priest,  "  the  god  spoke  to 
his  servant,  and  said,  the  friend  Atticus,  whom  Ar- 
menius  exiled,  yet  lives!  —  Start  not,  senator  of 
Rome — Atticus  yet  lives,  and  in  disguise  has  re- 
turned to  Rome,  found  proof  of  thy  baseness,  and  re- 
ceived honors  from  Augustus.  He  has  learned,  too, 
that  before  her  death  his  wife  was  delivered  of  a 
child ;  that  thou  didst  seize  the  infant,  and  didst 
bring  him  up  as  thy  slave,  that  thou  mightst  feast  thy 
hellish  hate  in  seeing  the  son  of  thy  rival  eat  with  thy 
bondsmen." 

**  Hast  thou  ended?"  asked  his  auditor. 

"I  have,"  answered  the  priest. 

**  Then  know  thy  god  or  thou  speak^st  false,  for  of 
a  surety  I  know  that  Atticus  is  long  since  dead.  Now 
answer  me  —  hast  thou  slain  the  slave?" 

"  To  satisfy  thyself  how  faithfully  I  have  executed 
my  commission,"  said  the  priest,  "raise  yonder  veil, 
and  behold  his  body." 

The  senator  strode  in  the  direction  pointed  out, 


i 


ISABELLE,    HER    SISTER   KATE,    &C,  121 

and  drawing  aside  the  curtain,  beheld  Acrricola  with 
Sylvia  in  his  arms.  He  recoiled  at  first,  but  in  an 
instant  exclaiming  — 

"  Wretch,  thou  hast  deceived  me ! "  unsheathed  a 
jewel-hilted  dagger  from  beneath  his  robe,  nnd  was 
bounding  forward,  when  the  priest  caught  his  arm. 

"  Hold,  murderer  !  "  he  cried,  "  nor  dare  to  shed  a 
freeman's  blood  !  " 

"  He  is  not  free.  He  is  my  slave,"  cried  the  sena- 
tor, striving  to  free  himself  from  the  priest,  who  held 
him  with  an  iron  grasp,  while  he  exclaimed,  "  'Tis 
false  —  he  is  my  son."  Then,  casting  aside  his  robe,  he 
discovered  his  person  decked  in  full  senatorial  cos- 
tume, while  he  added,  "  And  T  am  Atticus,  a  Roman 
senator."  Then,  wresting  tiie  dagger  from  his  hand,  he 
threw  him  from  him  with  gigantic  strength,  crying, 
*'  Thy  treason  has  reached  the  ears  of  Augustus. 
Guards,  seize  the  traitor  !  " 

As  if  by  magic,  the  chapel  filled  with  legionaries, 
who,  tearing  his  robes  from  the  crest-fallen  Armenius, 
conducted  him  to  a  neighboring  prison ;  while  the 
new  senator,  restored  to  all  his  power  and  estates,  with 
Agricola  and  his  lovely  bride,  was  escorted  trium- 
phantly to  the  palace  of  Augustus. 


ISABELLE,    HER    SISTER    KATE, 
AND    THEIR    COUSIN. 

Mistakes  and  misunderstandings  are  not  such  bad 
things,  after  all,  at  least  not  always  so;  circumstances 
alter  cases. 

I  remember  a  case  quite  in  point.     Every  body  iii 


122  ISABELLE,    HER    SISTER    KATE,    &C. 

the  county  admired  Isabelle  Edmunds;  and  in  truth 
she  was  an  admirable  creature ,  just  made  for  admi- 
ration, and    sonneteering,  and  falling  in  love  with  ; 

and    accordingly    all    the    county    of   was    in 

love  with  her.  The  columns  of  every  Argus,  and 
Herald,  and  Sentinel,  and  Gazette,  and  Spectator, 
and  all  manner  of  newspapers,  abounded  with  the  ef- 
fusions, supplicatory  and  declaratory,  of  her  wor- 
shippers :  in  short,  Miss  Isabelle  was  the  object  of 
all  the  spare  "ideality"  in  all  the  region  round 
about.  Now,  I  shall  not  inform  my  respected  read- 
ers how  she  looked  ;  you  may  just  think  of  a  Venus, 
a  Pysche,  a  Madonna,  a  fairy,  an  angel,  &lc.,  and  you 
will  have  a  very  definite  idea  on  the  point.  I  must 
run  on  with  my  story.  I  am  not  about  to  choose 
this  angel  for  my  heroine,  because  she  is  too  hand- 
some, and  too  much  like  other  heroines,  for  my  pur- 
pose. But  Miss  Isabelle  had  a  sister,  and  I  think 
I  shall  take  her.  "  Little  Kate  "  —  for  she  was  always 
spoken  of  in  the  diminutive  —  was  some  years  younger 
than  her  sister,  and  somewhat  shorter  in  stature. 
She  had  no  pretensions  to  beauty  —  none  at  all;  yet 
there  was  something,  a  certain  —  in  short,  sir,  she 
looked  very  much  like  Mrs.  A.,  or  Miss  G.,  whom  you 
admire  so  much,  though  you  always  declare  she  is 
not  handsome. 

It  requires  very  peculiar  talent  to  be  overlooked 
with  good  grace,  and  in  this  talent  Miss  Kate  ex- 
celled. She  was  as  placid  and  happy  by  the  side 
of  her  brilliant  sister,  as  any  little  contented  star 
that  for  ages  has  twinkled  on,  unnoticed  and  almost 
eclipsed,  by  the  side  of  the  peerless  moon.  Indeed, 
the  only  art  or  science,  in  which  Kate  ever  made 
any  proficiency,  was  the  art  and  science  of  being 
happy ;    and    in    this    she    so    remarkably    excelled, 


ISABELLE,    HER    SISTEIl    KATE,   &,C.  123 

that  one  could  scarcely  be  in  her  presence  half  an 
hour  without  feeling   unaccountably  comfortable. 

She  had  a  world  of  sprightlincss,  a  deal  of  simplicity 
and  affection,  with  a  dash  of  good-natured  shrewdness, 
that,  after  all,  kept  you  more  in  awe  than  you  would 
ever  suppose  you  could  be  kept,  by  such  a  merry,  good- 
tiatured  little  nobody.  Not  one  of  Isabelle's  adorers 
looked  at  her  with  such  devout  admiration  as  did  the 
laughter-loving  Kate.  No  one  was  so  ready  to  run, 
wait,  and  tend  —  to  be  up  stairs,  and  every  where,  in 
ten  minutes,  when  Isabelle  was  dressing  for  conquest ; 
in  short,  she  was,  as  the  dedications  of  books  some- 
times set  forth,  her  ladyship's  most  obedient,  most  de^ 
Voted  servant. 

But  if  I  am  going  to  tell  you  my  story,  I  must  not 
keep  you  all  night  looking  at  pictures;  so  now  to  my 
tale,  which  I  shall  commence  in  manner  and  form  fol- 
lowing :  — 

It  came  to  pass  that  a  certain  college  valedictorian, 
and  a  far-off  cousin  of  the  two  sisters,  came  to  pasg 
a  few  months  of  his  free  agency  at  their  father's;  and, 
as  aforesaid,  he  had  carried  off  the  first  college  honor, 
besides  the  hearts  of  all  the  ladies  in  the  front  gallery 
at  the  commencement. 

So  interesting!  so  poetic!  such  line  eyes,  and  all 
that,  was  the  reputation  he  left  with  the  gentle  sex. 
But  alas!  poor  Edward!  what  did  all  this  advantage 
him,  so  long  as  he  was  afflicted  with  that  unutterable, 
indescribable  malady,  commonly  rendered  bashful- 
ness  —  a  worse  nullifier  than  any  ever  heard  of  in 
Carolina?  Should  you  see  him  in  company,  you 
would  really  suppose  him  ashamed  of  his  remarkably 
handsome  person  and  cultivated  mind.  When  he 
began  to  speak,  you  felt  tempted  to  throw  open  the 
window  and  offer   him   a  smelling-bottle^  he   made 


124  ISAEELI.E,   K£?.   SISTER  KATE,   &C. 

such  a  distressing  affair  of  it;  and  as  to  speakitlg  iO 
a  lady,  tiie  thing  was  not  to  be  thought  of 

When  Kate  lieard  that  this  "  rara  avis  "  was  com- 
ing to  ker  father's,  she  was  unaccountably  interested 
to  see  him,  of  course  —  because  he  was  her  cousin, 
and  because —  a  dozen  other  things,  too  numerous  to 
mention. 

He  came,  and  was  for  one  or  two  days  an  object 
of  commiseration,  as  well  as  admiration,  of  the  whole 
family  circle.  After  a  while,  however,  he  grew  quite 
domestic;  entered  the  room  straight  forward,  instead 
of  stealing  in  sidewise  —  talked  off  whole  sentences 
without  stopping  —  looked  Miss  Isabelle  full  in  the 
face  without  blushing  —  even  tried  his  skill  at  stretch- 
ing patterns,  and  winding  silk-— read  poetry  and 
played  the  flute  with  the  ladies  —  romped  and  frol- 
icked with  the  ciiildren  — and,  in  short,  as  old  John 
observed,  wjss  "  as  pleasant  as  a  psalm  book  from 
morning  till  night." 

Divers  reports  began  to  spread  abroad  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  great  confusion  was  heard  in  the  camp 
of  Miss  Isabelle's  admirers.  It  Was  stated,  with  great 
precision,  hov/  many  times  they  had  ridden,  walked, 
talked  together,  and  even  all  they  had  said,  In  shorty 
the  whole  neighborhood  was  full  of 

"  That  strange  knowledge  thut  doth  come, 
We  know  not  how  —  we  know  not  where/' 

As  for  Katy,  she  always  gave  all  admirefs  to  her 
sister,  ex  officio;  but  she  thought,  that  of  all  the  men 
she  had  ever  seen,  she  should  like  her  cousin  Ed- 
ward best  for  a  brother;  and  she  did  hope  Isabelle 
would  like  him  as  much  as  she  did;  and  for  some 
reason  or  other,  her  speculations  were  remarkably 
drawn  to  this  point;  and   yet,  for   some   reason   or 


tSAUELLE,    ItEll    SISTER   KATE,    &C.  125 

Other,  she  felt  as  if  she  could  not  ask  any  questions 
about  it. 

At  last,  events  appeared  to  draw  towards  a  crisis. 
Edward  became  more  and  more  "brown  studious" 
every  day,  and  he  and  Isabelle  had  divers  solitary 
Walks  and  confabulations,  from  which  they  returned 
with  a  j)eculiar  solemnity  of  countenance.  More- 
over, the  quick-sighted  little  Kate  noticed  that  when 
Edward  was  with  herself  he  seemed  to  talk  as  though 
he  talked  not,  while  with  Isabelle  he  was  all  anima- 
tion and  interest ;  that  he  was  constantly  falling  into 
trances  and  reveries,  and  broke  ofTtlie  thread  of  con- 
versation abruptly;  and,  in  short,  had  every  appear- 
ance of  a  person  who  would  be  glad  to  say  something, 
if  he  only  knew  how. 

"  So,"  said  Kate  to  herself,  "  they  neither  of  them 
speak  to  me  about  it-— I  should  think  they  might. 
Belle  I  should  think  would,  and  Edward  knows  I  am 
a  good  friend  of  his.  I  know  he  is  thinking  of  it  all 
the  time.     lie  might  as  well  tell  me,  and  he  shall." 

The  next  morning  Miss  Kate  was  sitting  in  the 
little  back  parlor.  Isabelle  was  gone  out  shopping, 
and  Edward  was  — she  did  not  know  where.  O 
no,  here  he  is  —  coming  book  in  hand  into  the  self- 
same little  room.  "  Now  for  it,"  said  the  merry 
girl,  mentally;  "I'll  make  a  charge  at  him."  She 
looked  up.  Master  Edward  was  sitting  diagonally  on 
the  sofi,  twirling  the  leaves  of  his  book  in  a  very 
unscholarlike  manner;  he  looked  out  of  the  window 
and  —  then  he  walked  to  the  sideboard  and  poured 
out  three  tumblers  of  water ;  then  he  drew  a  chair  up 
to  the  work-table,  and  took  up  first  one  ball  of  cotton, 
looked  it  all  over,  and  laid  it  down;  then  another; 
then  he  picked  up  the  scissors,  and  minced  up  two  or 
three  little  bits  of  paper ;  and  then  he  began  to  pull 


126  rSABELLE,   HER  StSTEa   KATE,    &C. 

the  needles  out  of  the  needle-bookj  and  put  them 
back  again. 

"Do  you  wish  for  some  Rewing,  sir?'*  said  the 
young  lady,  after  having  very  composedly  superin- 
tended these  operations. 

"How — —  ma'amj  what!  "  said  he,  starting^  and 
upsetting  box,  stand  and  all,  upon  the  floor. 

"  Nov/,  cousin,  I'll  thank  you  to  pick  up  that  cot- 
ton," said  Kate,  as  the  confused  collegian  stood  star- 
ing at  the  cotton  balls  Tolling  in  divers  directions. 
It  takes  some  time  to  pick  up  all  the  things  in  a 
lady's  work*box;  but  at  last  peace  was  restored,  and 
with  it  a  long  pause. 

"  Well,  cousin,"  said  Kate,  in  about  ten  minutes, 
*'  if  you  can't  speak,  I  can ;  you  have  something  to 
tell  me,  you  know  you  have." 

"  Well,  I  hiow  I  have,"  said  the  scholar,  in  a  tone 
of  hearty  vexation. 

"  There's  no  need  of  being  so  fierce  about  it,"  said 
the  mischievous  maiden,  "  nor  of  tangling  my  silk,  and 
picking  out  my  needles,  and  upsetting  my  work-box^ 
as  preparatory  ceremonies." 

"There  is  never  any  need  of  being  a  fool,  Kate^ 
and  I  am  vexed  that  I  cannot  say"  —  [a pau^e>) 

"  Well,  sir,  you  have  displayed  a  reasonable  fiuen* 
cy  so  far  :  don't  you  feel  as  if  you  could  finish?  Don't 
be  alarmed;  I  should  like,  of  all  things,  to  be  youf 
confidant." 

But  Edward  did  not  finish ;  his  tongue  clave  to  the 
roof  of  his  mouth,  and  he  appeared  to  be  going  into 
convulsions. 

"  Weil,  I  must  finish  for  you,  I  suppose,"  said  the 
young  lady;  "the  short  of  the  matter  is,  Master  Ed- 
ward ,  you  are  in  love,  and  have  exhibited  the  phenomena 
thereof  this  fortnight.     Now,  you  know  I  am  a  friend- 


THE    SPANISH    DUCHESS,    &LC.  127 

ly  little  body;  so  do  be  tractable,  .-ind  tell  me  the  rest. 
Have  you  said  any  tliiniT  to  her  about  it?" 

"Toiler!  to  wlioin '?  "   said  Edward,  starting. 

**  Why,  Isabelle,  to  be  sure;  ii's   she,  isn't    it?'* 

"No,  Miss  Catharine,  it's  i/ou,"  said  the  scholar, 
who,  like  most  bashful  persons,  could  be  amazingly 
explicit  when  he  spoke  at  all. 

Poor  little  Kate!  it  was  her  turn  to  look  at  the 
cotton  balls,  and  exhibit  symptoms  of  scarlet  fever; 
and  while  she  is  thinking  what  to  say  next,  you  may 
read  the  next  piece. 


THE      SPANISH      DUCHESS      AND 
THE    OP^PHAN    BOY. 

The  duchess  of  Aimed  a,  who  was  a  Creole  of  the 
Havanna,  was  married,  at  a  very  early  age,  to    the 
'■  duke  of  that  name  and  title.     This  union  was  in  op- 
'  position  to  the  tast*^  of  Rita,  who  had  a  great  pred- 
ilection for  a  religious  life;    but,   as  her  family  in- 
sisted on  her  compliance  with  their  wishes,  she  sub- 
mitted in  silence,  and.  until  the  period  of  her  arrival 
in  France,  no  other  feelings  than    those    that    were 
;  prompted  by  the  sincerest  piety    had    occupied    her 
bosom. 

The  duke  of  Almeda  was  an  old  gentleman  of  an 
infinity  of  wit,  but  wlio  had  been  seduced,  as  was  at 
that  time  the  case  with  a  great  number  of  his  rank,  by 
the  falhe  splendor  with  which  the  school  of  the  En- 
cyL-lonedists  was  surrounded;  and,  deceived  by  the 
principles  of  universal  philanthropy  which  that  mis- 
chievous sect  announced,  he  devoted  himself,  heart 


128 


SPANISH   DUCHESS    AtW   ORPHAlf  BOTV 


and  soul,  to  the  propagation  of  its  doctrines.  Parti- 
cipating in  that  strange  but  honorable  entliusiasm,  by 
which  the  heads  of  half  the  French  nobility  were  at 
that  time  distracted  in  the  shadov/y  regions  of  an 
illusive  Utopia,  he  hurried  on,  as  far  as  lay  in  his 
power,  the  progressive  development  of  those  ideas, 
and  that  system  of  philosophy,  which  subsequently 
became  so  fatal  to  every  aristocracy  and  every 
throne. 

The  bitter  railleries  with  which  he  overwhelmed 
his  wife  on  the  subject  of  what  he  termed  her  super- 
stition, had  no  influence  upon  her  mind  so  long  as 
they  continued  in  Spain.  The  spiritual  and  secular 
authority  of  the  church  and  the  clergy  was  so  impo- 
sing, and  the  belief  of  the  people  so  deeply  and  firmly 
rooted ;  breathing  such  an  atmosphere  of  piety ;  sur- 
rounded by  persons  who  partook  of  the  sincerity 
of  her  conviction ;  and  encountering,  wherever  she 
turned,  the  exterior  symbols  of  her  magnificent  reli- 
gion, it  was  not  possible  that  the  purity  and  integrity 
of  Rita's  faith  could  suPfer  any  attaint  or  diminution. 

But,  when  she  arrived  at  Versailles,  and  had  lived 
for  some  time  in  the  centre  of  the  fetes,  elegances, 
and  enjoyments  of  a  polished  court,  famous  for  the 
refinements  of  its  wit,  and  the  exquisite  tone  of  its 
manners,  she  became  in  some  degree  involved  in  the 
vortex  of  its  dissipations;  and  in  the  giddy  round  of 
its  pleasures,  the  robustness  of  her  religious  convic- 
tions was  in  some  degree  impaired.  In  addition  to 
this,  the  religion  of  France  was  not  at  all  like  the 
prevalence  of  the  same  system  in  Spain ;  there  were 
no  longer  those  lofty  churches,  so  glowing  and  pro- 
found, with  their  glittering  slirines  of  gold  and  jew- 
elry, which  seemed  to  attract  around  them  all  the 
light  of  the  building,  and  shone  in  the  surrounding 
obscurity  like  an  emanation  of  the  light  of  heaven  j 


THE    SPANISH   DUCHESS,   &C.  129 

the  solemn  and  majestic  chant  of  the  monks  was  no 
longer  heard  in  France;  and  its  population,  clothed 
in  black  or  sad-colored  vestments,  was  no  longer 
seen  prostrate  upon  the  cold  pavement  of  the  aisles, 
in  silence  and  in  gloom,  and  counting  the  beads  of 
their  rosaries  with  enthusiastic  devotion,  and  all  the 
unction  of  religious  fervor. 

In  France,  the  spii^it  of  religion  had  been  lost  sight 
of,  and  its  genius  had  become  perverted  ;  its  ministers 
and  teachers  endeavored  to  dazzle  the  eyes  by  the 
splendor  of  its  worship,  instead  of  the  simplicity  of 
its  truths  ;  the  churches  were  magnificently  adorned 
with  gaudy  trappings,  but  they  had  almost  all  lost,  by 
neglect  or  decay,  those  beautiful  painted  windows, 
through  which  the  beams  of  the  sun  penetrated  like 
the  mild  and  softened  rays  of  a  rainbow ;  the  mass 
was  only  frequented  to  see  and  to  be  seen ;  the  sun 
threw  its  laughing  beams  through  large  and  lofty 
windows,  deluging  the  interior  of  the  churches  with 
a  flood  of  light,  and,  dancing  upon  the  profuse  decora- 
tions of  velvet,  and  gold,  and  silk,  flung  their  painted 
reflections  upon  a  noisy,  gay,  and  laughing  congrega- 
tion, the  luxury  of  whose  dresses  eclipsed  the  splen- 
dor of  the  altars ;  philosophy  had  banished  religion 
from  the  pulpit,  and  the  sacred  mysteries  were  solem- 
nized amid  sneers  and  ill-suppressed  sarcasms ;  and, 
to  crown  the  whole,  the  psalms  and  anthems  were 
sung  by  the  girls  of  the  opera. 

Moreover  —  and  it  must  be  avowed  —  her  principles 
were  acquired  rather  than  instinctive,  the  result  of 
chance  and  accident  rather  than  conviction  and  rea- 
son. She  was  endowed  with  a  quick,  fertile,  and  ar- 
dent imagination,  which  had  been  inflamed  by  the 
pompous  exterior  of  Catholicism,  and  its  grave  and 
majestic  ceremonies ;  and  having  never  yet  suffered, 
or  had  occasion  to  require  the  consolations  of  religion, 
9 


130  SPANISH  DUCHESS  AND  ORPHAN  BOY. 

she  had  never  listened  to  the  solemn  and  whispered 
echoes  of  that  vast  abyss  in  which  the  profound  soul 
of  Pascal  had  been  plunged.  She  had  experienced 
nothing  of  religion  but  its  poetry.  Of  the  unfathom 
able  ocean  of  faith,  she  perceived  nothing  but  the 
laughing,  fresh,  and  sparkling  wave  which  gamboled 
on  its  expanse  ;  and  her  soul  was  enraptured  while  her 
senses  were  intoxicated  by  the  inspiring  perfume  of 
the  incense,  and  the  distant,  solemn,  and  murmured 
melody  of  the  deep-toned  organ. 

And  so,  when  the  philosophers  who  composed  the 
society  of  her  husband  haa  laid  siege  to  her  spiritual- 
ized faith  with  their  cold  logic  and  dry,  algebraical 
reasoning,  Rita  was  incapable  of  reply  or  argument. 
They  reasoned  hy  mathematical  figures,  and  Vv^ith 
mathematical  precision,  while  she  could  only  talk  en- 
thusiasm and  ecstasy ;  when  she  quoted  the  miracles 
and  wonders  by  which  Christianity  had  been  illus- 
trated, and  its  authenticity  established,  they  opposed 
her  fervor  with  the  unchangeable  laws  of  nature  and 
astronomy :  on  whatever  side  she  turned,  she  en- 
countered nothing  but  cold  and  heartless  reasoning, 
or  withering  sarcasm,  —  and  she  held  her  peace, 
frightened  and  distressed ;  for  the  apparent  clearness 
of  certain  objections,  although  they  could  not  entirely 
convince  her,  or  utterly  persuade  her  of  the  hollowness 
of  that  system  to  which  she  had  clung,  had  the  effect 
of  shaking  her  conviction,  and  alarming  her  with  its 
possible  and  probable  impositions.  Then,  becomin;^ 
conscious,  as  if  by  mstinct,  of  all  the  happiness  and 
comfort  she  was  in  danger  of  being  deprived  of,  she 
wished  to  take  refuge  in  her  former  confident  and 
undoubted  belief;  but  the  time  had  passed,  never  to 
be  recalled;  the  cruel  and  brutal  demon  of  the  spir- 
it of  analysis  had  stained  with  his  withering  breath 
her  ravishing   visions   of  azure   skies   and   smiling 


THE    SPANISH    DUCHESS,    &LC.  131 

heavens,  peopled  with  angels  with  rainbow  wings, 
and  breathing  with  music  and  melody  which  ibuiid 
an  eclio  in  the  softened  heart ;  all  had  disappeared, 
like  the  visions  of  first  and  only  love! 

All  this  may  be  easily  conceived  :  a  person  of  a 
strong  and  powerful  mind,  or  of  a  proved,  strength- 
ened, and  confirmed  religious  faith,  can  contend  ad- 
vantageously, and  even  impress  his  antagonists  with 
his  own  hallowed  and  earnest  conviction,  and  elevate 
them  within  his  own  sphere  of  belief,  by  the  spell  of  a 
seducing  and  persuasive  eloquence;  but  Rita  was 
quite  powerless  with  the  adversaries  she  encountered, 
as  there  was  no  depth  in  her  animated  mind,  which 
was  carried  along  by  impulse,  and  as  she  had  attached 
herself  to  the  poetry  of  religion  quite  as  much  as  to 
its  doctrine  and  maxims.  At  length  her  mind  was 
tired  out,  and  more  particularly  as  she  appeared 
always  to  be  in  the  wrong  in  every  argument;  her 
self-love  was  irritated  by  finding  her  confused  but 
earnest  convictions  opposed  by  captious  but  subtle 
reasoning,  and  she  ended  by  doubting  of  every  thing 
and  of  herself.  From  doubt  to  incredulity  there  is 
but  one  step;  the  step  was  taken,  and  Rita  became  a 
professed  wit  and  freethinker. 

Incredulity  must  necessarily  make  a  deep  impres- 
sion upon  an  organization  so  susceptible  as  that  of 
Rita.  In  fact,  on  the  first  glance,  there  is  a  fatal 
attraction,  a  sort  of  fascination,  in  the  contest  against 
the  Deity ;  there  is  a  species  of  v.'ild  and  fierce 
}3oetry  in  the  revolt  of  the  rebel  angel ;  there  is  au- 
dacity in  blasphemy,  v/hen  Jupiter  retorts  with  a 
thunderbolt.  But  in  analyzing  the  atlieism  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  which  so  clamorously  pronounced 
its  pitiful  pretensions,  \vc  are  struck  with  its  mean- 
ness and  cowardly  character ;  for  those  who  professed 
it,  believed  in  a  state  of  utter  annihilation  after  death, 


132 


BPAlsTSH   DTTCKESS   AND   OEPHAW  EOT. 


and  they  had  nothing  to  fear  from  the  offended  laws 
during  their  lives.  They  could  therefore  blaspheme 
in  perfect  safety,  and  had  not  even  the  equivocal 
merit  of  being  martyrs  to  blasphemy  and  impiety. 
As  the  Divinity  did  not  accept  the  challenge  v/hicb 
was  tacitly  offered  by  Rita,  her  state  of  hesitation 
and  doubt  did  not  continue  long  ;  indifference  took  its 
place ;  and  at  length  it  happened  that  the  duchess  of 
Almeda  looked  upon  Heaven  with  no  emotions  either 
of  fear  or  love.  If  I  dwell  at  more  than  usual  length 
Hpon  this  incident  of  Rita's  existence,  it  is  because 
from  this  period  her  life  assumed  a  different  aspecty 
and  took  another  coloring.  For  her  ardent  and  pas- 
sionate imagination,  which  had  hitherto  (od  upon  the 
aliment  afforded  by  the  thoughts  of  infinity  and  eter- 
nity, which  open  an  immeasurable  career  for  vivid 
minds  to  expatiate  in,  had  soon  exhausted  what  it  had 
received  in  exchange  for  the  belief  v/hich  had  been 
destroyed,  and  was  compelled  to  fall  back  upon  its 
own  natural  resources,  or  to  waste  away  and  consume 
by  its  own  fire. 

Hitherto  Rita  had  escaped  the  influence  of  earthly 
passions;  but  now,  if  her  burning  soul,  fallen  froni 
so  high  a  flight,  wished  to  indulge  in  the  emotions  of 
joy  or  anguish,  they  could  only  be  found  or  felt  in 
love  ;  for  love  is  religion,  and  has  its  faith  and  creed  ; 
and  in  Rita's  case  it  was  more  particularly  so;  for 
if  she  had  given  herself  up  to  the  passion,  she  would 
have  loved  with  an  utter  and  absolute  surrender  of 
self,  with  a  fierce  and  implacable  jealousy,  which 
would  have  devoted  to  love  what  she  v/ould  have 
otherwise  sacrificed  to  Heaven  —  rank,  fortune,  and 
country.  But  they  did  not  love  in  France,  at  that 
time,  after  this  fashion ;  and  so  it  happened  that  Rita 
did  not  find  any  one  v/orthy  to  excite  in  her  heart 
Buch  a  passion,  and  she  remained  unscathed  in  the 


THE    BPANISn    DUCHESS,    SlC.  133 

general  dissoluteness  of  manners  and  principles,  and 
iived  an  exemplary  model  of  every  female  excellence, 
until  the  sudden  death  of  the  Duke  d'Almeda  left  her 
at  liherty,  a  young  widow,  and  with  an  immense  for- 
tune. Although  she  did  not  regret  the  duke  very 
much,  yet  she  paid  the  customary  respect  to  his 
memory,  and  passed  the  period  allotted  for  mourn- 
ing in  the  country.  Since  her  residence  in  France, 
Rita  had  never  been  so  isolated  from  society,  and  in 
such  utter  solitude,  as  now  ;  and  it  was  now  that  she 
regretted  her  former  happy  state  of  undoubting  and 
intense  faith ;  but  that  was  gone,  and  its  departed  in- 
fluence was  irrevocable;  and  the  duchess,  wearied 
and  chagrined,  dragged  on  the  dull  and  melancholy 
hours,  her  ardent  soul  longing  for  some  emotion  to 
occupy  her  feelings,  suffering  from  an  unknown  pain, 
and  longing  for  an  unknown  happiness.  Her  health 
became  affected ;  she  grew  thin,  and  her  cheeks 
were  stained  and  wrinkled  by  the  channels  of  invol- 
ontary  tears;  without  aid,  consolation,  or  refuge 
against  these  painful  sorrows,  and  the  nervous  ex- 
citement which  preyed  upon  and  fevered  her,  the 
thought  of  an  early  death  was  the  only  pleasing  idea 
which  visited  her  solitude,  and  she  sometimes  even 
thought  of  hastening  its  approach ;  bat  whether  her 
courage  failed  her,  or  a  secret  presentiment  withheld 
tier,  she  continued  to  linger  in  this  unhappy  state, 
nntil  the  hour  when  a  singular  chance  introduced 
Henri  to  her  notice. 

One  of  her  female  attendants  came  to  her  one  day 
with  the  information  that  some  fishermen,  who  had 
taken  shelter  from  a  storm  in  a  ruined  tower  on  the 
coast,  had  discovered  a  young  man  of  extraordinary 
beauty,  who  vv^as  nearly  expiring  from  exhaustion  ; 
and  that,  knowing  the  humanity  of  the  duchess,  they 
bad  come  to  the  castle  for  assistance  in  reviving  him. 


134 


SPANISH   DUCHESS   AND    ORPHAN   BOY. 


This  account  made  an  impression  upon  the  romantic 
mind  of  the  duchess,  and,  on  the  same  day,  she  bent 
her  steps  to  the  tower  of  Koatven,  accompanied  by  a 
domestic.  Then,  for  the  first  tijrie,  she  saw  Henri. 
Interested  by  the  mild  and  saddened  expression  of 
the  lad's  beautiful  and  noble  features,  Rita  explained 
to  him,  with  emotion,  the  object  of  her  visit;  and 
that,  having  understood  that  her  cares  and  attentions 
would  be  serviceable  to  him,  she  had  come  in  person 
to  tender  them. 

Henri  thanked  her  warmly  and  gratefully,  but 
added,  that  he  should  have  no  occasion  to  be  a 
burden  to  her.  His  history  was  a  simple  one.  He 
was  an  orphan,  and  had  been  brought  up  by  his 
uncle,  an  aged  ecclesiastic,  and  had  never  quitted 
him,  until  he  had  been  torn  from  him  by  death.  Left 
alone  in  the  world,  without  fortune,  friends,  or 
interest,  Henri  had  determined  to  follow  a  vocation 
to  v/hich  he  had  thought  himself  called  —  that  of  the 
cloister.  Nevertheless,  before  coming  to  an  irrevocable 
decision  upon  this  matter,  and  in  order  to  ascertain 
whether  he  could  fitly  support  the  solitude,  fasting, 
austerities,  and  privations  of  the  monastic  life,  he  had 
determined  to  make  the  tower  his  place  of  retirement 
for  some  little  time.  But  his  strength  had  failed 
him  ;  he  had  fallen  sick  ;  the  old  servant,  who  at- 
tended him,  had  abandoned  him  when  he  could  no 
longer  pay  him  for  his  services;  and  Jiad  it  not  been 
for  the  unexpected  visit  of  the  fishermen,  he  must 
have  perished  unknown.  He  concluded  his  narrative 
by  saying,  "  It  is  of  little  matter  now,  for  I  feel  that 
my  life  is  departing ;  and  soon,  poor  orphan  as  I  am» 
I  shall  go  to  rejoin,  in  heaven,  my  mother,  whom  1 
never  knew  on  earth. *' 

The  melancholy  resignation,  abandonment,  and 
misfortune,  by  which  the  lad  was  crushedj  and  his 


THE    SPANISH    DUCHESS,   &C.  135 

Engenuous  countenance,  touched  the  heart  of  the 
duchess,  and  she  instantly  felt  a  profound  pity  for, 
and  a  strong  interest  in,  one  so  unfortunate.  From 
this  period,  a  new  existence  commenced  for  Rita;  by 
€1  strange  contradiction,  the  haughty  duchess,  who 
had  resisted  and  repulsed  the  homage  of  the  noble 
and  the  elevated,  felt  an  unknown  sensation  inspiring 
her  at  the  sight  of  this  being,  so  unhappy  and  so  des- 
titute. Hitherto  the  most  elegant  trifling,  the  most 
distinguished  manners,  and  the  most  graceful  imper- 
tinence, of  the  flutterers  of  the  gay  world,  had  never 
arrested  the  passing  glance  of  Rita;  but  the  sad 
and  pale  face  of  Henri  remained  engraven  on  her 
lieart ;  those  features  which  she  had  never  beheld  but 
once,  seemed  to  haunt  her  wherever  she  went,  and 
that  soft  and  timorous  voice  was  constantly  thrilling 
in  her  soul. 

Rita  was  so  happy  in  this  newly-discovered  sensa- 
tion, that  she  did  not  dream  of  resisting  its  progress. 
Freed  from  all  ties  and  connections,  immensely  rich, 
and  her  own  mistress,  what  obstacle  was  there  to  pre- 
vent her  devoting  herself  to  Henri  ?  And,  on  his  side, 
alone,  isolated,  Vv'ithout  parents,  family,  or  friends, 
would  he  not  be  hers,  and  hers  only?  v/ould  he  not 
be  dependent  upon  her  1  would  he  not  hold  every 
thing  from  her  ?  and  then  would  she  not  be  the  only 
being  that  loved  him?  for  so  she  understood  love. 
Yes,  Rita  would  have  been  jealous  of  Henri's  mother 
or  sister,  if  he  had  owned  such  relations ;  for  love, 
in  Rita's  bosom,  was  egotism  in  its  purest  sense,  fierce, 
exacting,  and  exclusive.  The  more  she  knew  Henri, 
the  more  she  loved  him.  She  spent  whole  hours  in 
listening  to  the  outpouring  of  his  artless  and  candid 
soul,  and  delighted  in  the  consciousness  that  she  was 
feeling  the  same  emotions  which  she  excited  in  her 
(jrafeg-e ;  for  she  was  as  much  a  novice  as  he  in  the 


136  SPANISH   DUCHESS   AND    CUFHAN   20T. 

symbols  and  symptoms  of  the  delicious  passion,'  so 
that  an  exchange  was  established  between  them  of 
the  ravishing  details  of  each  new  discovery  which 
ihej  made  of  the  inilucnce  of  passionate  tenderness 
in  their  own  hearts,  and  by  which  they  divined  what 
was  passing  in  the  other's. 

And  then  the  boy  was  so  timid,  so  bashfu) ;  and, 
as  he  never  exacted  the  soft  tribute  of  the  lip,  it 
would  have  been  ungenerous  not  to  make  a  free  and 
unreserved  surrender  of  its  treasures.  And  so  at 
length  a  deep,  burning,  and  concentrated  passion 
took  possession  of  the  heart  and  soul  of  the  duch- 
ess. At  her  age,  the  development  of  such  a  feeling  is 
impetuous  and  uncontrollable.  Every  consideration 
was  postponed  to  the  happiness  of  calling  the  boy  her 
own.  Her  determination  to  effect  this  was  invincible 
and  unshaken  :  regardless  of  her  rank  and  fortune, 
and  forgetful  of,  or  despising,  her  social  position,  she 
decided  upon  offering  her  hand  to  Henri,  who,  in  one 
of  his  conversations,  had  avov/ed  himself  the  offspring 
of  a  noble,  though  impoverished  family  of  Bretagne. 

"  Of  what  consequence  is  his  fortune  to  me  ?  "  said 
Rita;  "is  he  not  noble?  Rforeover,  as  I  am  the 
only  child  cf  a  grandee  of  Castile,  can  I  not  endow 
him  with  the  name  and  title  of  my  sire  ?  I  will  do 
so;  for  he  shall  hold  every  thing  that  he  has  from 
me ;  every  thing,  even  his  name  •  that  name  which 
he  v/i!I  worthily  bear,  and  gallantly  illustrate!  For 
my  Henri  is  beautiful,  brave,  and  talented;  and  I 
never  yet  saw  a  gentleman  who  could  be  compared  ta 
him !  And  then,  he  loves  me  so  !  O,  he  loves  me 
to  adoration.  I  feel  it  here  —  in  my  heart!  I  love 
him  too  v/ell  for  it  to  be  otheru'ise.  And  has  he  not 
sacrificed  to  m.e  all  that  he  could  possibly  surrender 
in  this  world?  —  the  faith  which  he  had  sworn,  the 
pure  and  calm  future  which  he  dreamed.     And  who 


THE    SPANISH    DUCHESS,    &C.  137 

knows,"  said  Rita,  with  appreliension,  *'  who  can  tell 
tliat  he  has  not  sacrificed  his  happiness  to  me?" 

At  last,  the  three  days  which  she  had  required 
Henri  to  reflect  upon  her  proposition,  found  her,  if 
it  was  possible,  still  more  determined  and  resolute  in 
her  will.  On  the  evening  of  the  third  day,  she  took 
her  cloak,  and  leaving  the  castle  by  her  oratory, 
which  communicated  with  the  chapel  by  a  narrow 
passage,  she  leaned  upon  the  arm  of  one  of  her 
esquires,  and  walked  to  the  sea-side;  when  she  had 
reached  a  large  rock,  she  ordered  the  domestic  to 
await  her  return,  and  entered  the  tower, 

Henri  was  in  attendance  at  the  gate,  standing  on  a 
sort  of  terrace,  which  served  as  a  foundation  for  the 
staircase ;  but  he  was  dressed  in  such  a  manner  that 
Rita  did  not  at  first  recognize  him,  and  she  stood  sur- 
prised and  motionless.  He  was  almost  entirely  en- 
veloped in  a  monk's  habit;  and  his  cowl,  drawn  over 
his  head,  nearly  concealed  his  features. 

"Rita!  Rita!  — it  is  I!"  said  he,  in  his  gentle 
tones.  He  had  hardly  pronounced  the  first  syllable 
of  her  name,  ere  the  duchess,  recognizing  her  lover^ 
had  flung  herself  into  his  arms. 

"  But,  Henri,  why  assume  this  sad  costume?" 

*'  Was  it  not  that  which  I  was  doomed  to  assume 
before  I  knew  you,  my  Rita?  I  wished  to  clothe 
myself  in  it  for  a  first,  a  last,  and  only  time,  in 
order  to  make  to  you  a  more  total,  ample,  and  unre- 
served sacrifice!     Are  you  offended  at  me?" 

."  No,  no ;  but  come,"  said  Rita,  rushing  up  the 
staircase. 

Henri  gently  held  her  back.  "  Listen,"  he  mur 
mured,  while  he  pressed  the  lips  of  Rita  against  hie 
own.  "I  have  a  fancy  to  be  alone  in  my  apartraenf 
above  to  receive  you,  and  fitly  to  do  the  honors  of  my 
hermitage,     I  wish  once  more  to  long  and  to  listeo 


138 


SPANISH   DUCHESS   AKD   ORPHAN  BOY. 


for  the  welcome  sound  of  your  footsteps,  and  the 
rustling  of  your  dress.     Will  you  permit  me?" 

"Yes,  yes;  but  let  me  tell  you,"  interrupted  Rita 
with  joyous  precipitation,  so  eager  was  she  to  confide 
her  cherished  and  darling  secret  to  her  lover  —  *'  let 
me  tell  you,  Henri,  I  am  come  to  offer  you  my  hand  ! 
—  my  hand,  with  an  immense  fortune  and  a  title!  — 
such  a  glittering,  dazzling  title,  as  German  electors 
might  envy,-  and  it  is  all  for  you,  and  myself  with  it! 
and,  O,  how  gladly  do  I  surrender  all  to  one  who  —  " 

*'  Angelic  creature ! "  said  Henri,  kissing  her 
bright  and  marble  brow;  "I  will  be  with  you  in- 
stantly." And  so  saying,  he  disappeared  in  the  dark 
recesses  of  the  tower.  A  minute  afterward,  Rita 
stood  at  the  door,  which  no  darkness  could  prevent 
her  finding.  She  threw  it  open,  and  uttered  a  shriek 
of  astonishment,  almost  of  terror. 

Rita's  surprise  was  very  natural ;  for  no  one  could 
have  recognized  the  obscure  and  wretched  chamber 
of  the  tower  of  Koatven.  Its  damp  walls,  blackened 
by  time,  were  covered  with  magnificent  draperies  of 
purple  velvet,  whose  ample  folds  seemed  to  diminish 
ihe  proportions  of  the  apartment  at  least  one  half. 
There  was,  besides,  aprol^iision  of  golden  candlesticks, 
of  gilded  furniture,  of  Venetian  mirrors,  reflecting 
the  light  of  a  thousand  wax  tapers,  which  made  this 
circular  room  seem  a  concentration  of  light  and 
splendor.  And  the  timid  and  melancholy  Henri  was 
metamorphosed  into  a  graceful,  accomplished,  and 
confident  gentleman,  who  glided  over  the  rich  car- 
pets to  offer  his  hand  to  the  duchess,  to  conduct 
her  to  an  arm-chair,  near  a  table  magnificently  pre- 
pared, whose  equipage  was  of  the  richest  china,  en- 
amelled with  vermilion-colored  figures  of  flowers,  and 
whose  drinking  goblets  were  of  crystal,  so  thin  and 
pellucid  that  the  juncture  of  the  lips  was  almost  felt 


THE    SPANISH    DUCHESS,    &LC.  139 

through  them.  Yes,  it  was  Henri  himself;  only, 
instead  of  his  monastic  habit,  which  he  had  most 
likely  assumed  to  conceal  his  costume,  it  was  Henri 
magnificently  arrayed  in  a  coat  of  blue  velvet  em- 
broidered with  gold,  and  with  a  waistcoat  of  cloth  of 
silver  !  It  was  Henri  glittering  in  the  rays  of  the  rose 
diamonds,  which  flashed  through  the  rich  and  elab- 
orately-worked lace  of  his  ruffles,  which  blazed 
upon  his  garters,  on  the  buckles  of  his  red-heeled 
shoes,  and  on  the  hilt  of  his  sword.  It  was  Henri, 
who  wore  with  perfect  ease,  and  as  if  he  had  been 
always  accustomed  to  it,  the  costume  of  a  polished 
nobleman,  adorned  with  the  orders  of  Malta  and  of 
St.  Louis,  and  over  which  waved  gracefully,  with 
every  motion,  the  large  shoulder-knots  of  white  satin, 
studded  with  silver,  the  distinctive  emblem  that  the 
wearer  was  in  the  military  household  of  the  royal 
Bourbon  of  France. 

But,  alas!  the  countenance  of  Henri  bore  no 
longer  that  soft  expression  of  sadness  and  of  suffering 
which  had  such  a  melting  charm  for  Rita's  heart. 
His  features  were  now  smiling  and  animated;  his 
glances,  which  the  duchess  had  never  yet  encoun- 
tered in  their  full  force,  and  which  had  been  always 
hitherto  downcast  and  veiled  by  his  long  eyelashes, 
were  now  flushed  with  gayety  and  exultation  ;  and 
the  cloud  of  white  and  perfumed  powder,  which  was 
thickly  sprinkled  over  his  rich  tresses,  doubled  the 
expressive  power  of  his  black  and  deeply  piercing 
eyes. 

"  Am  I  asleep  or  awake? "  said  the  duchess,  trem- 
bling, and  overcome  by  a  feeling  of  apprehension  and 
grief  which  she  could  not  conceal. 

*'  Madame  the  duchess  shall  have  every  thing  ex- 
plained to  her,"  was  the  respectful  response  of  Henri, 
assuming  the  exquisite  politeness  of  the  day,  which 


140 


SPANISH  DUCHESS   AND   ORPHATT   BOY. 


did  not  allow  of  a  lady's  being  addressed  but  in  the 
third  person. 

Rita  threw  herself  into  an  arm-chair.  ''Explain! 
in  the  name  of  Heaven,  sir,  explain  the  meaning  of 
all  this!"  , 

*'  In  the  first  place,"  rejoined  he,  *'  will  madame 
the  duchess  allow  me  to  inquire  whether  she  has 
ever  heard  speak  of  the   Comte  de  Vaudrey  1 " 

"  Frequently,  sir,  when  I  was  in  the  habit  of  going 
to  the  court  of  Versailles." 

"  Then,  madame  the  duchess  will  learn,  perhaps 
with  some  astonishment,  that  the  Comte  de  Vaudrey 
has  now  the  honor  of  addressing  her." 

"  You,  sir  —  you,  Henri  —  but  then  —  good  Heaven! 
—  but  what  signifies  ?  But  the  Comte  de  Vaudrey,  1 
was  told,  was  in  the  navy,  and  served  in  America  — 
it  is  impossible  —  for  pity's  sake,  Henri,  solve  me  this 
mystery," 

*'  It  is  very  true,  madame  the  duchess,  that  I  did 
serve  in  America,  under  the  orders  of  Admiral  de 
Guicheii ;  but  after  two  years'  cruising,  I  returned  to 
France,  where  I  have  now  been  nearly  two  months." 

"  Then,  monsieur  the  count,"  exclaimed  Rita, 
with  impetuosity,  and  rising  hastily  from  her  chair, 
"' what  is  your  motive  for  thus  disguising  yourself? 
1  cannot  comprehend  it.  I  am  giddy.  Have  mercy, 
Henri,  upon  a  confiding  and  affectionate  woman." 

"If  madame  the  duchess  will  condescend  to 
listen,"  said  Henri,  while,  with  the  most  exquisite 
attention,  he  assisted  her  to  reseat  herself,  "  she  shall 
know  every  thing." 

*  *  *  #  *  * 

Happy  in  her  husband,  her  station,  and  in  the  nu- 
merous blessings  which  flow  from  the  proper  and  ju- 
dicious administration  of  a  large  fortune,  the  Duchess 
d'Almeda  recovered  that  peace  of  mind  which  arises 


SNOW-STOKM    IN    SCOTLAND.  141 

from  a  conscientious  discharge  of  the  duties  of  life, 
and  in  whicii  tlie  days  pass  undisturbed,  and  the 
nights  are  tranquil  and  refreshing.  With  these  re- 
turned the  original  pious  dispositions  of  her  soul, 
which  had  been  suppressed  rather  than  extinguislied, 
and  wliich  would  never  have  been  disturbed,  had  it 
not  been  for  the  artful  insinuations  and  dexterous 
sophistry  of  the  leaders  of  that  wretched  philosophy, 
by  the  principles  of  which  the  peace  of  Europe  was 
wrecked  for  so  long  a  period.  To  a  susceptible 
heart,  and  an  ardent  temperament,  a  correct  under- 
standing of  religious  matters  is  more  necessary  than 
to  others ;  and  in  this  the  Duchess  d'Almeda  cor- 
dially concurred,  when  she  reflected  with  terror  upon 
the  dangers  to  which  her  youth  would  have  been 
exposed,  had  the  Comte  de  Vaudrey  been  other  than 
a  gentleman  and  a  man  of  honor. 


SNOW-STOHM  IN  SCOTLAND, 

*  *  =5^  A  TALE  of  Truth  and  Tears, 
long  forgotten,  comes  across  our  heart  —  long  for- 
gotten, though  on  the  eve  of  that  day  on  which 
the  deliverance  happened,  so  passionately  did  we  all 
regard  it,  that  we  felt  that  interference  providential ; 
as  if  we  had  indeed  seen  the  hand  of  God  stretched 
down  through  the  mist  and  snow  from  heaven  !  We 
all  sLiid  that  it  would  never,  all  our  lives,  desert  our 
memory.  But  all  of  us  forgot  it.  But  now,  while 
the  tempest  howls,  it  seems  again  but  of  yesterday  ! 

One  fomily  lived  in  Glencreran,  and  another  in 
Glenco  —  the  families  of  two  brothers;  seldom  vis- 


142 


SNOW    STORM    IN   SCOTLAND. 


Sting  each  other  on  working  days,  for  their  sheep  min- 
gled not  together  on  the  hill ;  seldom  meeting  even 
on  Sabbaths,  for  theirs  was  not  the  same  parish-kirk ; 
and  seldom  coming  together  on  rural  festivals  or 
holidays,  for  in  the  Highlands,  now,  these  are  not  so 
frequent  as  of  yore ;  yet  all  these  sweet  seldoms,  ta- 
ken together,  to  loving  hearts  made  a  happy  many ; 
and  thus,  though  each  family  passed  its  life  in  its  own 
horasfelt  wilderness,  there  were  many  invisible  threads 
stretched  out  through  the  intermediate  air,  connect- 
ing the  two  dwellings  together,  even  as  the  dew- 
gemmed  gossamer  keeps  floating  from  one  tree  to 
another,  each  with  its  own  secret  nest.  And  nest- 
like both  dwellings  were.  That  in  Glenco,  built 
beneath  a  treeless  but  high-heathed  rock  ;  lownd  in 
all  storms ;  with  greensward  and  garden  on  a  slope 
down  to  that  rivulet,  clearest  of  the  clear,  (O ! 
once  wofully  reddened  !)  and  groiving  —  as  it  seems 
in  the  mosses  of  its  own  roof,  and  the  huge  stones 
that  overshadov/  it  —  out  of,  and  belonging  to,  the 
solid  earth.  Tliat  in  Glencreran,  more  conspicuous, 
on  a  knoll  among  the  pastoral  meadows,  midway  be- 
tween mountain  and  mountain,  so  that  the  grove 
which  shelters  it,  except  when  the  sun  is  shining  in 
his  meridian  tower,  is  darkened  by  both  their  shad- 
ows, and  dark,  indeed,  even  in  the  sunshine;  for  'tis 
a  low  but  wide-armed  grove  of  the  oak-like  pines. 
A  little  farther  down,  and  Glencreran  is  truly  "  a  syl- 
van scene"  indeed;  but  this  dwelling  is  the  highest 
up  of  all  —  the  first  you  descend  upon,  near  the  foot 
of  that  wild  hanging  staircase  now  between  you  and 
Glen-Etive;  and  except  this  old  oak-like  grove  of 
pines,  there  is  not  a  tree,  and  hardly  a  bush,  on  bank 
or  brae,  pasture  or  hay-field,  though  they  are  kept, 
by  many  a  rill,  there  mingling  themselves  into  one 
stream,  in  a  perpetual  green  lustre  that  seemeth  **  im- 


SNX)W-STORM    JN    SCOTLAND.  143 

borrowed  from  the  sun,"  and  to  be  as  native  to  the 
grass  as  its  light  is  to  the  glow-worm.  Such  are  the 
two  huts  ;  for  they  are  huts,  and  no  more ;  and  you 
may  see  them  still,  if  you  know  how  to  discover  the 
beautiful  sights  of  nature  from  descriptions  treasured 
in  your  heart ;  and  if  the  spirit  of  change,  now  no 
where  at  rest  on  the  earth,  not  even  in  its  most  soli- 
tary places,  have  not  swept  violently  from  the  scenes 
they  beautified,  the  humble  and  hereditary  dwellings 
that  ought  to  be  allowed,  in  the  fulness  of  the  quiet 
time^  to  relapse  back  into  the  bosom  of  nature,  through 
insensible  and  unperceived  decay. 

These  huts  belonged  to  brothers;  and  each  had 
an  only  child,  a  son  and  a  daughter,  born  on  the 
same  day,  and  now  blooming  on  the  verge  of  youth. 
A  year  ago,  and  they  were  but  mere  children ;  but 
what  wondrous  growth  of  spirit  and  of  the  spirit's 
frame  does  nature,  at  that  season  of  life,  often  present 
before  our  eyes,  so  that  we  almost  see  the  very  change 
going  on  between  morn  and  morn,  and  feel  that  these 
objects  of  our  affection  are  daily  brought  closer  to 
ourselves,  by  their  partaking  daily  more  and  more  in 
all  our  most  sacred  thoughts,  in  our  cares  and  in  our 
duties,  and  in  knowledge  of  the  sorrows  as  well  as 
the  joys  of  our  common  lot !  Thus  had  those  cousins 
grown  up  before  their  parents'  eyes  —  Flora  Macdon- 
ald,aname  hallowed  of  yore,  the  fairest,  and  Hamish, 
the  brightest  of  all  the  living  flowers  in  Glencreran 
and  Glenco,  It  was  now  their  sixteenth  birthday; 
and  never  had  a  winter  sun  smiled  more  serenely 
over  a  hush  of  snow.  Flora,  it  had  been  agreed  on, 
was  to  pass  that  day  in  Glencreran,  and  Hamish  to 
meet  her  amoncr  the  mountains,  that  he  mio-ht  brincr 
her  down  the  many  precipitous  passes  to  his  parents' 
hut.  It  was  the  middle  of  February,  and  the  snow 
had  lain  for  weeks,  with  all  its  drifts  unchanged,  so 


144  SNOW   STORM  llf   SCOTLAND. 

calm  had  been  the  weather,  and  so  continued  the 
frost.  At  the  same  hour,  known  by  horologe  on  the 
cliff  touched  by  the  finger  of  dawn,  the  happy  crea- 
tures left  their  own  glen,  and  mile  after  mile  of  the 
smooth  surface  glided  away  past  their  feet,  almost  as 
the  quiet  water  glides  by  the  little  boat  that,  in  favor- 
ing breezes,  walks  merrily  along  the  sea.  And  soon 
they  met  at  the  trysting-place —  a  bank  of  birch-trees, 
beneath  a  cliff  that  takes  its  name  from  the  Eagles. 

On  their  meeting,  seemed  not  the  whole  wilder- 
ness to  their  souls  and  senses  suddenly  inspired  with 
beauty  and  with  joy  ?  Insects,  unheard  by  them  be- 
fore, hummed  and  glittered  in  the  air;  from  tree- 
roots,  where  the  snow  was  thin,  little  flowers,  or 
herbs  flower-like,  now  for  the  first  time  were  seen 
looking  out  as  if  alive;  the  trees  themselves  seemed 
budding,  as  if  it  were  already  spring;  and  rare  as, 
in  that  rocky  region,  are  the  birds  of  song,  a  faint 
trill  for  a  moment  touched  their  ear,  and  the  flutter 
of  a  wing,  telling  them  that  somewhere  near  there 
was  preparation  for  a  nest.  Deep  down  beneath  the 
snow  they  listened  to  the  tinkle  of  rills  unreached  by 
the  frost ;  and  merry,  thought  they,  was  the  music 
of  these  contented  prisoners.  Not  Summer's  self,  in 
its  deepest  green,  so  beautiful  had  ever  been  to  them 
before,  as  now  the  mild  white  of  Winter ;  and  when 
their  eyes  were  lifted  up  to  heaven,  when  had  they 
ever  seen,  before,  a  sky  of  such  perfect  blue,  a  sun 
so  gentle  in  its  brightness,  or  altogether  a  week-day, 
in  any  season,  so  like  a  Sabbath  in  its  stillness,  so 
like  a  holiday  in  its  joy?  Lovers  were  they,  al- 
though as  yet  they  knew  it  not ;  for  from  love  only 
could  have  come  such  bliss  as  now  was  theirs  —  a 
bliss  that,  while  it  beautified,  they  felt  came  from, 
and  belonged  to,  the  eternal  skies. 

In  that  wilderness  Flora  sang  all  her  old  songs  to 


SNOW-STORM    IN    SCOTLAND.  145 

those  wild  Gaelic  airs  that  sound  like  the  sighing 
of  winds  among  fractured  cliffs,  or  the  branches  of 
storm-tossed  trees,  when  the  subsiding  tempest  is 
about  to  let  them  rest.  Monotonous  music !  but  ir- 
resistible over  the  heart  it  has  once  awakened  and 
inthrailed,  so  sincere  seems  to  be  the  mournfulness 
it  breathes  in  its  simplicity  —  a  mournfulness  brooding 
and  feeding  forever  and  ever  on  the  same  note  that  is 
at  once  its  natural  expression  and  its  sweetest  ali- 
ment, of  which  the  dreaming  singer  never  wearieth 
in  her  woe,  while  her  heart  all  the  time  is  haunted  by 
all  that  is  most  piteous  in  memory,  by  the  faces  of 
the  dead  in  their  paleness  returning  to  the  shades  of 
mortality,  only  that  once  more  they  may  pour  from 
their  fixed  eyes  those  strange  show^ers  of  unaccount- 
able tears ! 

How  merry  were  they  between  those  mournful 
airs !  O,  how  Flora  trembled  to  see  her  lover's 
burning  brow  and  flashing  eyes,  as  he  told  her  tales 
of  great  battles  fought  in  foreign  lands,  far,  far  across 
the  sea- — tales  which  he  had  drunk  in  with  greedy 
ears  from  the  old  heroes  scattered  all  over  Lochaber 
and  Badenoch,  on  the  brink  of  the  grave  still  gar- 
rulous of  blood ! 

"  The  sun  sat  high  in  his  meridian  tower ;  " 

but  time  had  not  been  with  the  youthful  lovers,  and 
the  blessed  beings  believed  that  yet  'twas  but  a  little 
hour  since  beneath  the  Eagle  Cliff  they  had  met  in 
the  prime  of  the  full-brightened  morn ! 

The  boy  starts  to  his  feet,  and  his  keen  eye  looks 
along  the  ready  rifle ;  for  his  sires  had  all  been  fa- 
mous deer-stalkers,  and  the  passion  of  the  chase  was 
hereditary  in  his  blood.  Lo !  a  deer  from  Dalness, 
dog-drivenj  or  sullenly  astray,  slowly  bearing  his  an- 
10 


146  SNOW    STORM   IN   SCOTLAND* 

tiers  up  the  glen,  then  stopping  for  a  moment  to  snuff 
the  air,  and  then  like  lightning  away  —  away!  The 
rifle-shot  rings  dully  from  the  scarce  echoing  snow- 
cliffs,  and  the  animal  leaps  aloft,  struck  by  a  mortal 
but  not  sudden  death-wound.  O  for  Fingal  now  to 
pull  him  down  like  a  wolf!  But  laboring  and  lum- 
bering heavily  along,  the  snow  spotted,  as  he  bounds, 
with  blood,  the  huge  animal  at  last  disappears  round 
some  rocks  at  the  head  of  the  glen.  "  Follow  me. 
Flora!"  the  boy-hunter  cries;  and  flinging  down 
their  plaids,  they  turn  their  bright  faces  to  the  moun- 
tain, and  away  up  the  long  glen  after  the  stricken 
deer.  Fleet  was  the  mountain-girl  as  an  Oread: 
and  Hamish,  as  he  ever  and  anon  looked  back  to 
wave  her  on,  with  pride  admired  the  beauty  of  her 
lightsome  motion  as  she  bounded  along  the  snow. 
Redder  and  redder  grew  that  snow,  and  more  heavily 
trampled,  as  they  winded  round  the  rocks;  and,  lo! 
the  deer  staggered  up  the  mountain,  not  half  a  mile 
off,  and  there,  standing  at  bay,  as  if  before  his  swim- 
ming eyes  came  a  vision  of  Fingal,  the  terror  of  the 
forest,  whose  howl  was  known  to  all  the  echoes,  and 
quailed  the  herd  v/hile  their  antlers  were  yet  afar  off! 
"  Rest,  Flora !  rest !  while  I  fly  to  him  with  my  rifle^ 
and  shoot  him  through  the  heart !  " 

Up  —  up  —  up  far,  far,  far  up  the  interminable  glen 
that  kept  winding  and  winding,  round  many  a  jutting 
promontory,  and  many  a  castled  cliff,  the  red  deer 
kept  dragging  its  gore-oozing  bulk,  sometimes  almost 
within,  and  then,  for  some  hundreds  of  yards,  beyond 
rifle-shot,  while  the  boy,  maddened  by  the  chase, 
pressed  forwards,  now  all  alone,  nor  any  more  look- 
ing behind  for  Flora,  who  had  entirely  disappeared ; 
and  thus  he  was  hurried  on  for  miles  by  the  whirl- 
wind of  passion,  till  at  last  he  struck  the  noble 
quarry,  and  down  sank  the  antlers  in  the  snow,  whii^ 


SNOW-STORM    IN    SCOTLAND.  147 

the  air  was  spurned  by  the  convulsive  beatings  of 
feet.  Then  leapt  Hamish  upon  the  red  deer  like  a 
beast  of  prey,  and  lifted  up  a  look  of  triumph  to 
the  mountain  top. 

Where  is  Flora?  Her  lover  has  forgotten  her,  and 
he  is  alone — nor  knows  it  —  in  the  wilderness  —  he 
and  the  red  deer  —  an  enormous  animal  —  fast  stiff- 
ening in  the  frost  of  death.  Some  large  flakes  of 
snow  are  in  the  air ;  and  they  seem  to  waver  and 
whirl,  though,  an  hour  ago,  there  was  not  a  breath 
all  over  the  region.  Faster  they  fall,  and  fister ;  the 
flakes  are  almost  as  large  as  leaves;  and  overhead, 
whence  so  suddenly  has  come  that  huge  yellow  cloud? 
"Flora,  where  are  you?  where  are  you,  Flora?" 
And  from  the  huge  hide  the  boy  leaps  up,  and  sees 
that  no  Flora  is  in  the  glen.  But  yonder  is  a  mov- 
ing speck  far  off"  upon  the  snow!  'Tis  she  —  'tis 
she ;  and  again  Hamish  turns  his  eyes  upon  the 
quarry,  and  the  heart  of  the  hunter  burns  within  him 
like  a  new-stirred  fire.  Shrill  as  the  eagle's  cry,  dis- 
turbed in  his  eyry,  he  sends  his  voice  down  the  glen  ; 
and  Flora,  with  cheeks  pale  and  bright  by  fits,  is  at 
last  at  his  side.  Panting  and  speechless  she  stands, 
and  then  dizzily  sinks  fainting  on  his  breast.  Her 
hair  is  ruffled  by  the  wind  that  revives  her,  and  her 
face  all  moistened  by  the  snow-flakes,  now  not  fall- 
ing, but  driven ;  for  the  day  has  undergone  a  dismal 
change,  and  all  over  the  skies  are  now  lowering  sav- 
age symptoms  of  a  fast-coming  night-storm. 

Bare  is  poor  Flora's  head,  and  sorely  drenched 
her  hair,  that  an  hour  or  two  ago  glittered  in  the 
sunshine.  Her  shivering  frame  misses  now  the 
warmth  of  the  plaid  which  almost  no  cold  can  pene- 
trate, and  which  had  kept  the  vital  current  flowing 
freely  in  many  a  bitter  blast.  What  would  the  mis- 
erable boy  give  now  for  the  coverings,  lying  far  away, 


148  SNOW    STORM    IN   SCOTLAND. 

which,  in  his  foolish  passion,  he  flung  down  to  chase 
that  fatal  deer  !  "  O,  Flora !  if  you  would  not  fear 
to  stay  here  by  yourself,  under  the  protection  of 
God,  who  surely  will  not  forsake  you,  soon  will  I 
go  and  come  from  the  place  where  our  plaids  are 
lying ;  and  under  the  shelter  of  the  deer,  we  may  be 
able  to  outlive  the  hurricane  —  you  wrapt  up  in  them 
—  and  folded,  O  my  dearest  sister,  in  my  arms!" 
*'  I  will  go  with  you  down  the  glen,  Hamish !  "  and 
she  left  his  breast,  but,  weak  as  a  day-old  lamb, 
tottered,  and  sank  down  among  the  snow.  The 
cold  —  intense  as  if  the  air  were  ice  —  had  chilled 
her  very  heart,  after  the  heat  of  that  long  race ;  and 
it  was  manifest  that  here  she  must  be  for  the  night, 
to  live  or  to  die !  And  the  night  seemed  already 
come,  so  full  was  the  lift  of  snow;  while  the  glim- 
mer every  moment  became  gloomier,  as  if  the  day 
was  expiring  long  before  its  time.  Howling  at  a 
distance  down  the  glen  was  heard  a  sea-born  tempest 
from  the  Linnhe-Loch,  where  now  they  both  knew 
the  tide  was  tumbling  in,  bringing  with  it  sleet  and 
snow-blasts  from  afar ;  and  from  the  opposite  quarter 
of  the  sky  an  inland  tempest  was  raging  to  meet  it, 
while  every  lesser  glen  had  its  own  uproar  ;  so  that  on 
all  hands  they  were  environed  with  death. 

"  I  will  go,  and,  till  I  return,  leave  you  with  God." 
"Go,  Hamish  !  "  and  he  went  and  came,  as  if  he  had 
been  endowed  with  the  raven's  wings  ! 

Miles  away,  and  miles  back  had  he  flown,  and 
an  hour  had  not  been  with  his  going  and  his  coming  ; 
but  what  a  dreary  wretchedness,  meanv/hile,  had  been 
hers!  She  feared  that  she  was  dying;  that  the  cold 
snow-storm  was  killing  her;  and  that  she  would 
never  more  see  Hamish,  to  say  to  him  a  right  last 
farewell.  Soon  as  he  was  gone,  all  her  courage 
had  died.     Alone,  she  feared   death,  and  wept,  and 


SNOW-STORM   IN    SCOTLAND.  149 

wept,  and  wept  in  the  wilderness,  thinking  how 
hard  it  was  for  one  so  young  thus  miserably  to  die  I 
He  came,  and  her  whole  being  was  changed. 
Folded  up  in  both  the  plaids,  she  felt  as  if  she 
were  in  heaven.  **  O,  kiss  mc,  kiss  me,  liamish; 
for  thy  love,  great  as  it  is,  —  or  never  hadst  thou 
travelled  so  the  long  snows  for  my  sake,  —  is  not  as 
my  love;  and  you  must  never  forget  me,  Hamish, 
when  your  poor  Flora  is  dead  ! " 

Religion,  with  these  two  young  creatures,  was  as 
clear  as  the  light  of  the  Sabbath  day,  and  their  be- 
lief in  heaven  just  the  same  as  in  earth.  The  will 
of  God  they  thought  of  just  as  they  thought  of  their 
parents'  will ;  and  the  same  was  their  loving  obedi- 
ence to  its  decrees.  If  she  was  to  die,  supported 
now  by  the  presence  of  her  brother.  Flora  was 
utterly  resigned ;  if  she  were  to  live,  her  heart  im- 
agined to  itself  the  very  forms  of  her  worshipping 
gratitude !  But  all  at  once  she  closed  her  eyes ; 
spake  not,  breathed  not ;  and,  as  the  tempest 
howled  and  rumbled  in  the  gloom  that  fell  around 
them  like  blindness,  Hamish  almost  fell  down,  think- 
ing that  she  was  dead. 

"  Wretched  sinner  that  I  am !  My  wicked  mad- 
ness brought  her  here  to  die  of  cold  in  the  snow ! " 
And  he  smote  his  heart,  and  tore  his  hair,  and 
feared  to  look  up,  lest  the  angry  eye  of  God  were 
looking  on  him  through  the  storm. 

All  at  once,  without  speaking  a  word,  Hamish 
lifted  Flora  in  his  arms,  and  walked  away  up  the 
glen,  here  almost  narrowed  into  a  pass.  Distrac- 
tion gave  him  supernatural  strength,  and  her  weight 
seemed  that  of  an  infant.  Some  walls  of  what  had 
once  been  a  house,  he  had  suddenly  remembered, 
were  but  a  short  way  off;  whether  or  not  they  had 
any  roof,  he  had  forgotten ;  but  the  thought  even  of 


150  ■    SNOW   STORM   IN   SCOTLAND. 

such  shelter  seemed  a  thoaght  of  salvation.  There 
it  was  —  a  snow-drift  at  the  opening  that  had  once 
been  a  door  —  snow  up  to  the  holes  once  windows; 
the  wood  of  the  roof  had  been  carried  off  for  fuel, 
and  the  snow-flakes  were  falling  in,  as  if  they  would 
soon  fill  up  the  inside  of  the  ruin.  The  snow  in 
front  was  all  trampled  as  if  by  sheep ;  and  carrying 
in  his  burden  under  the  low  lintel,  lo  !  the  place  was 
filled  with  a  flock  that  had  foreknown  the  hurricane, 
and  all  huddled  together,  looking  on  him  as  on  the 
shepherd  come  to  see  how  they  were  faring  in  the 
storm. 

And  a  young  shepherd  he  was,  with  a  lamb  ap- 
parently dying  in  his  arms.  All  color,  all  motion, 
all  breath,  seemed  to  be  gone;  and  yet  something 
convinced  his  heart  that  she  was  yet  alive.  The 
ruined  hut  was  roofless ;  but  across  an  angle  of  the 
walls,  some  pine  branches  had  been  flung  as  a  sort 
of  shelter  for  the  sheep  or  cattle  that  might  repair 
thither  in  cruel  weather ;  some  pine  branches  left  by 
the  woodcutters,  who  had  felled  the  few  trees  that 
once  stood  at  the  very  head  of  the  glen.  Into  that 
corner  the  snow-drift  had  not  forced  its  way  ;  and  he 
sat  down  there  with  Flora  in  the  cherishing  of  his 
embrace,  hoping  that  the  warmth  of  his  distracted 
heart  might  be  felt  by  her  who  was  as  cold  as  a 
corpse.  The  chill  air  was  somewhat  softened  by  the 
breath  of  the  huddled  flock,  and  the  edge  of  the  cut- 
ting wind  blunted  by  the  stones.  It  was  a  place  in 
which  it  seemed  possible  that  she  might  revive, 
miserable  as  it  was,  with  mire-mixed  snow,  and  al- 
most as  cold  as  one  supposes  the  grave.  And  she  did 
revive;  and  under  the  half-open  lids  the  dim  blue 
appeared  to  be  not  yet  life-deserted.  It  was  yet  but 
the  afternoon,  night-like  though  it  was;  and  he 
thought,  as  he  breathed  upon  her  lips,  that  a  faint 


SNOW-STORM    IN    SCOTLAND.  151 

red  returned,  and  that  they  felt  his  kisses  poured 
over  them  to  drive  death  away. 

"  O,  father,  go  seek  for  Hamish,  for  I  dreamt  to- 
night he  was  perishing  in  the  snow !  "  "  Flora,  fear 
not;  God  is  with  us."  "  Wild  swans,  they  say,  are 
come  to  Loch-Phoil  ;  let  us  go,  Hamish,  and  see  them 
—  but  no  rifle  —  for  why  kill  creatures  said  to  be  so 
beautiful?"  Over  them,  where  they  lay,  bended 
down  the  pine-branch  roof,  as  if  it  would  give  way 
beneath  the  increasing  weight  of  snow ;  but  there 
it  still  hung,  though  the  drift  came  over  their  feet, 
and  up  to  their  knees,  and  seemed  stealing  upwards 
to  be  their  shroud.  *'0,I  am  overcome  with  drow- 
siness, and  fain  would  be  allowed  to  sleep.  Who 
is  disturbing  me?  and  what  noise  is  this  in  our 
house?"  "Fear  not,  fear  not,  Flora;  God  is 
with  us."  "  Mother  !  and  I  lying  in  your  bosom ! 
My  father  surely  is  not  out  in  the  storm !  O,  I 
have  had  a  most  dreadful  dream."  And  with  such 
mutterings  as  these,  Flora  relapsed  again  into  that 
perilous  sleep,  which  soon  becomes  that  of  death. 

Night  itself  came,  but  Flora  and  Hamish  knew 
it  not;  and  both  lay  now  motionless  in  one  snow- 
shroud.  Many  passions,  though  earthborn,  all  di- 
vine, —  pity,  and  grief,  and  love,  and  hope,  and  at 
last  despair,  —  had  prostrated  the  strength  they  had 
so  long  supported ;  and  the  brave  boy,  who  had 
been  for  some  time  feeble  as  a  very  child  after  a 
fever,  with  a  mind  confused  and  wandering,  and,  in 
its  perplexities,  sore  afraid  of  some  nameless  ill,  had 
submitted  to  lay  down  his  head  beside  his  Flora's, 
and  soon  became,  like  her,  insensible  to  the  night 
and  all  its  storms  1 

Bright  was  the  peat-fire  in  the  hut  of  Flora's  pa- 
rents in  Glenco ;  and  they  were  among  the  happiest 
of  the  humbly  happy,  blessing  this  the  birthday  of 


152 


SNOW    STORM   IN   SCOTLAND. 


their  blameless  child.  They  thought  of  her  singing 
her  sweet  songs  by  the  fireside  of  the  hut  in  Glen- 
creran ;  and  tender  thoughts  of  her  cousin  Hamish 
were  with  them  in  their  prayers.  No  warning  came 
to  their  ears  in  the  sough  or  the  howl ;  for  fear  it  is 
that  creates  its  own  ghostlike  visitings,  and  they  had 
seen  their  Flora,  in  the  meekness  of  the  morning, 
setting  forth  on  her  way  over  the  quiet  mountains, 
like  a  fawn  to  play.  Sometimes,  too.  Love,  that 
starts  at  shadows,  as  if  they  were  of  the  grave,  is 
strangely  insensible  to  things  that  might  well  strike 
it  with  dismay.  So  was  it  now  with  the  dwellers  in 
the  hut  at  the  head  of  Glencreran.  Their  Hamish 
had  left  them  in  the  morning ;  night  had  come,  and 
he  and  Flora  were  not  there ;  but  the  day  had  been 
almost  like  a  summer  day,  and  they,  in  their  infatua- 
tion, never  doubted  that  the  happy  creatures  had 
changed  their  minds,  and  that  Flora  had  returned 
with  him  to  Glenco.  Hamish  had  laughingly  said, 
that  haply  he  might  surprise  the  people  in  that  glen 
by  bringing  back  to  them  Flora  on  her  birthday ; 
and,  strange  though  it  afterwards  seemed  to  her  to 
be,  that  belief  prevented  one  single  fear  from  touch- 
ing the  mother's  heart,  and  she  and  her  husband  lay 
down  in  sleep,  unhaunted  by  any  woful  dream. 

What  could  have  been  done  for  them,  had  they 
been  told  by  some  good  or  evil  spirit  that  their  chil- 
dren were  in  the  clutches  of  such  a  night?  As  well 
seek  for  a  single  bark  in  the  middle  of  the  misty 
main  !  But  the  inland  storm  had  been  seen  brewing 
among  the  mountains  round  King's  House,  and  hut 
had  communicated  with  hut,  though  far  apart,  in  that 
wilderness  where  the  traveller  sees  no  symptoms  of 
human  life.  Down  through  the  long  cliff-pass  of 
Mealanumy,  between  Buchael-Etive  and  the  Black- 
Mount,  towards  the  lone  House  of  Dalness,  that  lives 


SNOW-STORM    IN    SCOTLAND.  153 

in  everlasting  shadows,  went  a  band  of  shepherds, 
trampling  their  way  across  a  hundred  frozen  streams. 
Dalness  joined  its  strength ;  and  then  away  over  the 
drift-bridged  chasms  toiled  that  Gathering,  with  their 
sheep-dogs  scouring  the  loose  snows;  in  the  van, 
Fingal,  the  Red  Reaver,  with  his  head  aloft,  on  the 
lookout  for  deer,  grimly  eyeing  the  Correi,  where  last 
he  tasted  blood.  All  "  plaided  in  their  tartan  array," 
these  shepherds  laughed  at  the  storm  —  and  hark  I 
you  hear  the  bagpipe  play  —  the  music  the  Highland 
ers  love  both  in  war  and  in  peace. 

"  They  think  then  of  the  ourie  cattle, 
And  silly  sheep;  " 

and  though  they  ken  'twill  be  a  moonless  night  —  for 
the  snow-storm  will  sweep  her  out  of  heaven  —  up 
the  mountain  and  down  the  glen  they  go,  marking 
where  flock  and  herd  have  betaken  themselves;  and 
now  at  nightfall,  unafraid  of  that  blind  hollow,  they 
descend  into  the  depth  where  once  stood  the  old 
Grove  of  Pines.  Following  the  dogs,  who  know 
their  duties  in  their  instinct,  the  band,  without  see- 
ing it,  are  now  close  to  that  ruined  hut.  Why  bark 
the  sheep  dogs  so?  and  why  howls  Fingal,  as  if  some 
spirit  passed  athwart  the  night?  He  scents  the  dead 
body  of  the  boy,  who  so  often  shouted  him  on  in  the 
forest,  when  the  antlers  went  by!  Not  dead  —  nor 
dead  she  who  is  on  his  bosom  !  Yet  life  in  both  is 
frozen ;  and  will  the  iced  blood  in  their  veins  ever 
again  be  thawed?  Almost  pitch  dark  is  the  roofless 
ruin  ;  and  the  frightened  sheep  know  not  what  is  the 
terrible  Shape  that  is  howling  there.  But  a  man 
enters,  and  lifts  up  one  of  the  bodies,  giving  it  into 
the  arms  of  them  at  the  door-way,  and  then  lifts  up 


154  €NOW   STORM   IN   SCOTLAND. 

I 

the  other ;  and  by  the  flash  of  a  rifle,  they  see  that 
it  is  Hamish  and  Flora  Macdonald,  seemingly  both 
frozen  to  death  !  Some  of  those  reeds  that  the  shep- 
herds burn  in  their  huts  are  kindled,  and  in  that 
small  light  they  are  assured  that  such  are  the  corpses. 
But  that  noble  dog  knows  that  death  is  not  there; 
and  licks  the  face  of  Hamish,  as  if  he  would  restore 
life  to  his  eyes !  Two  of  the  shepherds  know  well 
how  to  fold  the  dying  in  their  plaids —  how  gentliest 
to  carry  them  along ;  for  they  had  learnt  it  on  the 
field  of  victorious  battle,  when,  without  stumbling 
over  the  dead  and  wounded,  they  bore  away  the  shat- 
tered body  —  yet  living  —  of  the  youthful  warrior, 
who  had  shown  that  of  such  a  clan  he  was  worthy  to 
be  the  chief 

The  storm  was  with  them  all  the  way  down  the 
glen  ;  nor  could  they  have  heard  each  other's  voices 
had  they  spoke ;  but  mutely  they  shifted  the  burden 
from  strong  hand  to  hand  ;  thinking  of  the  hut  in 
Glenco,  and  of  what  would  be  felt  there  on  their  ar- 
rival with  the  dying  or  dead.  Blind  people  walk 
through  what  to  them  is  the  nicrht  of  crowded  dav- 
Streets  —  unpausing  turn  round  corners  —  unhesita- 
tingly plunge  down  steep  stairs  —  wind  their  way 
fearless  through  whirlwinds  of  life  —  and  reach,  in 
their  serenity,  each  one  unharmed,  his  own  obscure 
house.  For  God  is  with  the  blind.  So  is  he  with 
all  who  walk  on  works  of  mercy.  This  saving  band 
had  no  fear,  and  therefore  there  was  no  danger,  on 
the  edge  of  the  pitfall  or  the  cliff".  They  knew  the 
countenances  of  the  mountains,  shown  momentarily, 
by  ghastly  gleamings,  through  the  fitful  night  and 
the  hollow  sound  of  each  particular  stream  beneath 
the  snow,  at  places  where  in  other  weather  there 
was  a  pool  or  a  waterfall.     The  dip  of  the  hills,  in 


SNOW-STORM    IN    SCOTLAND.  165 

spite  of  the  drifts,  familiar  to  their  feet,  did  not  de- 
ceive them  now;  and,  then,  the  dogs,  in  their  instinct, 
were  guides  that  erred  not ;  and  as  well  as  the  shep- 
herds knew  it  themselves,  did  Fingal  know  that  they 
were  anxious  to  reach  Glenco.  He  led  the  way,  as 
if  he  were  in  moonlight ;  and  often  stood  still  when 
they  were  shifting  their  burden,  and  whined  as  if  in 
grief  He  knew  where  the  bridges  were,  stones  or 
logs ;  and  he  rounded  the  marshes  where  at  springs 
the  wild  fowls  feed.  And  thus  Instinct,  and  Reason, 
and  Faith,  conducted  the  saving  band  along ;  and 
now  they  are  at  Glenco,  and  at  the  door  of  the  hut ! 
To  life  were  brought  the  dead,  and  there  at  mid- 
night sat  they  up  like  ghosts.  Strange  seemed  they, 
for  a  while,  to  each  other's  eyes;  and  at  each  other 
they  looked  as  if  they  had  forgotten  how  dearly  once 
they  loved  !  Then,  as  if  in  holy  fear,  they  gazed  on 
each  other's  faces,  thinking  that  they  had  awoke  to- 
gether in  heaven.  "Flora!"  said  Hamish  ;  and  that 
sweet  word,  the  first  he  had  been  able  to  speak,  re- 
minded him  of  all  that  had  passed,  and  he  knew  that 
the  God  in  whom  they  had  put  their  trust  had  sent 
them  deliverance.  Flora,  too,  knew  her  parents,  who 
were  on  their  knees,  and  she  strove  to  rise  up  and 
kneel  down  beside  them ;  but  powerless  was  she  as 
a  broken  reed ;  and  when  she  thought  to  join  with 
them  in  thanksgiving,  her  voice  was  gone.  Still  as 
death  sat  all  those  simple  shepherds  in  the  hut ;  and 
one  or  two,  who  were  fathers,  were  not  ashamed  to 

WfieO  4t  #  4t  4t  4fe  # 


156  BERTHA   CLERVILLE* 


BERTHA    CLERVILLE. 

"But  my  father?  —  Edward — -I  cannot  leave  my 
poor  father  —  not  even  to  perfect  your  happiness!  — 
No !  I  cannot  leave  my  father." 

There  was  a  pause  after  those  words  had  been  de- 
livered in  a  sweetly-agitated  voice,  and  a  faint  sound, 
as  of  some  one  endeavoring  to  check  the  rising  sobs 
of  bitter  emotion;   after  vv'iich  another  voice  said  — 

"  h  will  be  but  the  first  burst  of  passion—  the  first 
short  interval  of  sullenness  and  gloom  —  and  you  will 
be  forgiven.  Think,  dear  Bertha,  think  upon  the 
long  and  happy  years  which  we  will  share  together; 
think  upon  the  fervor  of  n]y  love  —  nay,  adoration  — 
and  say  if  one  bold  step  shall  be  wanting  to  consum- 
mate our  long-desired  union." 

'*  I  have  thought,  Edward,  till  thought  is  drowned 
by  sorrow:  I  cannot,  I  dare  not,  think  of  it  longer." 

As  these  words  were  spoken,  two  figures  were  seen 
to  emerge  from  the  deep  shade  of  some  old  oak-trees, 
which  stood  like  the  tenacious  representatives  of  by- 
gone days,  into  the  mellow  light  of  a  full  and  brightly 
beaming  moon  —  that  lovely  light 

"  Which  every  soft  and  solemn  spirit  worship3, 
And  lovers  love  so  well !  " 

One  figure  was  that  of  a  tall  and  well-formed  man ; 
the  other  an  apparently  slight  and  delicate  female, 
who  sobbed  and  Vv'ept  at  intervals,  as  she  proceeded 
slowly  and  timidly  by  the  side  of  her  companion, 
whose  arm  was  tenderly  thrown  around  her  waist, 
and  occasionally  employed  in  straining  her  more 
closely  to  the  heart  which  beat  for  her  alone  —  a  sort 


BERTHA    CLERVILLE.  157 

of  expressive  eloquence,  which  sometimes  does  more 
rapid  execution  than  all  the  boasted  array  of  potent 
language  can  effect. 

To  the  true  understandincr  of  this  most  veritable 
history,  it  is  meet  that  I  should  now  record  all  that  I 
know  of  the  amiable  pair  which  I  have  introduced  to 
public  notice.  Firstly,  then,  in  honor  and  in  place  — 
for  when  shall  lovely  woman  cease  to  take  prece- 
dence?—  Bertha  Clerville  was  the  only  daughter  of  a 
rich  old  country  gentleman  —  rich  in  paternal  acres, 
and  in  one  surpassingly  beautiful  child;  and,  second- 
ly, Edward  Forester,  her  adopted  lover,  was  also  a 
country  gentleman,  but  of  infinitely  humbler  caste. 
He  was  the  only  son  of  a  litigious  sort  of  spend- 
thrift—  a  genus  much  too  common  amongst  the  elite 
of  agricultural  counties;  and  though  it  is  true  that 
he  had  passed  to  his  final  account,  it  was  not  until  he 
had  left  the  accounts  of  his  successor  in  a  wofully  de- 
ranged condition.  .Clerville  and  Forester  were  con- 
tiguous proprietors,  and  the  law-loving  spirit  of  the 
latter  had  rendered  him  so  peculiarly  obnoxious  to 
the  former,  that  he  even  entertained  a  most  inveterate 
hatred  for  his  memory.  But  when  could  law  avert 
the  course  of  love?  Born,  as  it  were,  together  —  be- 
dewed by  the  same  sliowers,  and  cherished  by  the 
same  sunbeams,  Bertha  Clerville  and  Edward  Fores- 
ter were  lovers  in  their  very  infancy,  and  their  youth- 
ful hearts  were  insensibly  intertwined  before  they 
became  aware  of  the  formidable  barriers  which  thei' 
respected  parents  were  raising  between  them.  Love 
is  proverbially  blind  —  and  so,  it  is  said,  is  Law;  at 
least  Justice,  who  holds  the  magic  balance,  is  so  de- 
pictured. Certain  it  is,  that  the  litigation  of  the 
parents  prevented  not  the  love  of  the  children. — 
Thrown  almost  constantly  together,  they  cherished  the 
same  sentiments,  they  followed  the  same  amusements. 


158  BERTHA   CLERVILLE. 

nay,  they  cultivated  the  self-same  flowers,  and  if  there 
was  one  plant  —  one  blossom  —  above  all  others  — 
which  Bertha  loved,  her  Edward  loved  it  too.  There 
was  also  another  secret  sympathy  which  linked  these 
guileless  souls  together :  they  had  each,  early,  lost  an 
affectionate  mother,  and  were  thus  marked  as  it  were 
by  the  far-felt  hand  of  fate  for  friends,  associates, 
lovers. 

Whilst  they  were  yet  in  childhood's  golden  time, 
the  bitterness  which  rankled  in  the  bosoms  of  their 
parents  seemed  to  shed  no  blight  on  the  heart-felt 
happiness  of  the  children  ;  and  even  Gerard  Clerville 
himself  would  smooth  down  the  hair  of  young  Ed- 
ward, and  proudly  declare  him  "  the  finest  boy  in  the 
-county."  But  when  they  arrived  at  that  more  un- 
certain period,  when  youth  lingers,  as  it  were,  upon 
the  landscape,  unwilling  to  resign  the  dear  delights 
of  the  festal  scenes  of  by-gone  hours  to  the  fresh 
embraces  of  maturity,  the  bitter  waters  of  the  elder 
stream  began  to  mingle  with  the  sparkling  crystal  of 
the  fresher  fountain,  and  formed  the  earliest  sorrow 
which  their  young  hearts  had  been  destined  to  know. 

At  length  old  Forester  died,  and  his  son,  though 
far  above  the  reach  of  want,  was  confessedly  no  match 
for  the  wealthy  heiress  of  Gerard  Clerville;  and,  as  a 
necessary  consequence,  the  beautiful  Bertha  was  for- 
bidden even  to  think  of  him !  How  lightly  deem 
they  of  the  human  heart,  who  issue  their  proud  man- 
-dates  so  peremptorily  !  Bertha  was  not  undutiful  ; 
but  she  could  not  cease,  at  once,  to  think  of  one  on 

tiom  alone  for  years  her  thoughts  had  perpetually 
n  :  ted ;  and,  with  every  wish  to  obey  a  parent  who 
"w  15  in  no  other  respect  unreasonable,  poor  Bertha 
d  1  but  think  of  the  forbidden  one  the  more!  She 
Sc  r  no  valid  objection  to  him  in  the  inequality  of 
h  :  ane ;  she  knew  that  he  would  not  waste  his  pa- 


BERTHA   CLERVILLE.  159 

tcrnlty  on  the  incertitude  of  idle  litigation;  she  knew 
him  to  be  generous,  ardent,  sincere ;  she  ivnew  that 
he  loved  her  as  his  own  soul,  and  she  hoped  —  what 
a  jewel  hope  is  in  a  lover's  eye  !  —  she  hoped  to  soften 
the  asperities  of  her  parent,  and  unite  herself  forever 
with  the  man  she  loved. 

Now,  though  Edward  Forester  was  an  honorable 
young  man,  a  man  of  talent,  and  possessed  of  intelli- 
gence almost  beyond  his  rank  of  life,  yet  truth  com- 
pels me  to  declare  that  he  had,  in  many  of  his  stolen 
interviews,  urged  the  affectionate  girl  to  take  the 
somevi'hat  hasty  step  which  we  find  him  nrging  at 
the  commencement  of  this  narrative.  As  yet,  how- 
ever, his  eloquent  entreaties  had  been  ineifectual, 
and,  considering  how  powerful  a  pleader  he  had  in 
her  own  bosom,  that  is  saying  m::ch  for  the  feminine 
endurance  of  Bertha  Clerville.  But  constant  assault 
reduces  the  most  impregnable  fortresses;  and  at 
length  the  worn-out  heart  of  Bertha  yielded  to  the 
soft  solicitations  of  her  impassioned  lover,  and  slowly, 
very  slowly  and  reluctantly,  she  consented  to  fly  with 
him,  and  make  her  fond  old  father  miserable  ! 

The  next  night  at  midnight,  when  old  Clerville 
had  retired  to  his  bed,  was  the  time  appointed  by  the 
inconsiderate  lovers  for  their  hasty  flight.  They 
were  to  pass  as  rapidly  as  steeds  could  carry  them  to 
the  country  town,  whence,  the  indissoluble  contract 
having  been  formed,  they  would  return  to  the  scene 
of  bereavement,  and  the  repenting  daughter  would 
sue  for  pardon  at  her  father's  feet. 

There  is,  I  am  firmly  persuaded,  an  index  in  every 
heart  which  points  to  rectitude,  in  the  midst  of  every 
deviation  ;  and  the  gentle  heart  of  Bertha  was  not 
without  this  inward  monitor,  the  "still  small  voice" 
of  which  was  heard  above  the  pleadings  of  affection, 
or  the  silvery  tones  of  love.     When  Bertha  met  her 


f60  BERTHA   CLEtl^'lLtE. 

father  in  the  morning  at  the  breakfast  table,  she  could 
not  endure  the  kindliness  of  his  gaze;  the  unbidden 
tears  filled  her  eyes,  and  fell  fast  down  her  cheeks,  at 
the  sight  of  the  fond  old  man  whom  she  was  about  to 
leave,  even  for  so  short  a  time,  and  on  an  errand  so 
important.  At  dinner  she  was  still  more  distressed  ; 
and  when  the  hour  for  tea  arrived,  she  pleaded  abso- 
lute indisposition  for  her  non-appearance.  Whilst 
love  and  affection  —  if  I  may  be  allov/ed  to  draw  so 
fine  a  distinction  betv/een  terms  generally  deemed 
synonymous  —  were  thus  torturing  the  bosom  of  the 
now  really  unhappy  Bertha,  the  hours  were  hastening 
on  with,  unwearied  rapidity ;  the  shades  of  evening 
fell  with  their  accustomed  serenity ;  and  the  moon 
rose  with  almost  miore  than  her  usual  splendor ;  and 
now  came  Bertha's  trying  hour.  It  had  for  many  a 
year  been  the  custom  of  old  Clerville,  (and  an  endear- 
ing and  truly  parental  custom,  in  my  opinion,  it  is,) 
on  retiring  for  the  night,  to  kiss  the  bright  lips  of  his 
daughter,  and  bid  her  a  low-voiced,  sweet  "  good 
night,"  to  which  she  as  sweetly  did  respond.  On 
this  occasion,  the  unsuspecting  father  kissed  his 
■child;  but  Bertha  could  not  say  "good  night ;  "  the 
very  attempt  was  suffocation;  she  could  but  grasp 
his  hand,  and  burst  into  tears.  Clerville  had  noticed 
the  altered  manner  of  his  daughter;  but  thinking  it 
the  effect  of  a  transient  indisposition,  he  imagined  a 
few  hours  of  rest  would  be  an  ample  restorative,  and, 
forbearing  to  distress  her  by  mentioning  it,  he  retired 
to  his  chamber. 

With  a  solemn  step,  the  almost  broken-hearted  girl 
descended  to  the  scene  of  her  appointment.  It  was 
her  own  little  sitting-room,  on  the  ground  floor,  the 
window  of  which,  left  invitingly  open,  looked  into 
the  spacious  garden.  Her  impatient  lover  was  there 
before  her.     "Bertha!"    he  murmured  as  she  en- 


BERTHA    C'LERVILLf:.  101 

tered;  and  Bertha,  rushing  into  his  arms,  wept  lon^ 
and  passionately  upon  his  bosom. 

*'  It  has  been  a  hard  struggle,"  said  she,  at  last, 
"  and  I  had  nearly  failed  beneath  its  force.  O,  Ed- 
ward, this  has  been  a  day  of  unmingled  misery  ta 
me." 

"  Repent  not,  dearest,"  said  her  lover  ;  "  it  will  be 
the  last.     Come,  my  love  ;  delay  is  fatal." 

"  It  is  indeed !  "  said  old  Clerville,  in  a  voice  of 
thunder,  as  he  emerged  into  the  bright  light  of  the 
moon,  which  came  like  a  flood  into  the  chamber 
through  the  open  window,  his  frame  dilated  with 
rage,  and  his  eyes  flashing  with  the  justly-roused  indig- 
nation of  an  insulted  parent.  Edward  stood  abashed, 
like  one  detected  in  the  act  of  stealing  the  brightest 
gem  of  all  from  the  brilliant  casket ;  he  had  no  power 
of  utterance.  Bertha  neither  shrieked  nor  fled,  but, 
like  "  dejected  pity"  by  the  side  of  "  rage,"  she  sank 
down  in  the  posture  of  supplication. 

"Worthless  vdlain !  "  said  Clerville,  "would  you 
rob  me  of  my  child?  Begone,  while  yet  my  temper 
holds,  or  I  may  rob  the  gibbet  of  its  own  !  Begone ! 
the  midnight  burglar  hangs  in  chains,  but  such  a 
thief  as  you  escapes  with  but  an  old  man's  execra- 
tions ringing  in  his  ears.  Begone,  robber!  midnight 
murderer  of  a  parent's  peace,  begone  !  " 

Bertha  sunk  prostrate  on  the  floor  in  utter  insen- 
sibility, and  the  young  man  moved  as  though  he  would 
have  passed  to  her  relief 

"What!"  said  Clerville,  "will  you  dare,  in  my 
presence,  to  contaminate  her  with  your  touch?  No ! 
if  she  were  stone  dead  at  my  feet,  no  hand  of  yours 
should  raise  her.     Frontless  wretch,  begone  !  " 

As  if  actuated  by  a  sudden  impulse,  the  young  de- 
linouent  darted  through  the  window,  and  disappeared, 
11 


162  SERTHA   CLERVILLE. 

whilst  the  afflicted  father  carried  his  still  insensible 
child  to  her  apartment. 

With  the  accuracy  of  a  veritable  historian,  I  must 
now  relate  the  cause  which  led  to  Clerville's  unex- 
pected share  in  this  domestic  drama.  He  had  retired 
to  rest,  as  I  have  intimated,  and  sleep  fell  like  a  man- 
tle over  him  ;  but  it  was  not  the  sleep  of  rest ;  his 
spirit  was  perturbed.  Whether  there  exists  some 
mysterious  association  between  the  dormant  mind 
and  what  is  actually  taking  place  in  waking  life,  I 
know  not;  but  Clerville  dreamt  that  his  daughter  was 
in  danger ;  his  attempts  to  rescue  her  awoke  him 
from  his  troubled  slumber,  and  so  sensibly  was  he 
affected  by  his  dream,  that  he  instantly  repaired  to 
her  apartment.  His  surprise  must  be  imagined,  when 
he  discovered  that  she  was  not  there;  he  determined 
on  further  search,  and,  guided  by  a  sort  of  sacred 
instinct,  he  just  arrived  in  time  to  hear  the  machina- 
tions of  the  tv/o  ardent,  though  injudicious  lovers. 

The  effects  of  this  distressing  denciicment  were  al- 
most fatal  to  poor  Bertha ;  fever,  follov/ed  by  deliri- 
um, ensued,  and  weeks  elapsed  before  she  was  able 
to  leave  her  chamber.  When,  at  last,  with  weak  and 
faltering  feet,  she  did  leave  it,  a  cold  gleam,  almost 
like  that  of  dull  insanity,  v/as  in  her  eye,  and  her 
discourse  was  wandering  and  unconnected.  She  had 
a  peculiar  aversion  to  being  alone,  and  contemplated 
an  open  window  with  feelings  excited  almost  to  terror. 
Reason,  however,  did  but  waver  for  a  moment  on  her 
deeply-shaken  seat;  the  sight  of  a  suffering  parent, 
though  dimly  seen  through  the  burning  tears  of  silent 
anguish,  recalled  the  goddess  to  her  golden  throne, 
and  banished  the  insidious  traces  of  insanity,  but  left 
securely  seated  in  its  place,  her  dull  and  melancholy 
ministrant  —  despair. 


BERTHA    CLERVILLE.  163 

When  she  had  fully  recovered,  a  letter  was  placed 
in  her  hands,  which  contained  the  following: —    * 

"  Dearest  Bertha, 

I  have  heard  of  your  severe  sufferings,  and 
I  do  not  cease  to  curse  myself  as  their  unhappy 
author.  I  implore  your  forgiveness,  and  that  of 
your  injured  father.  O,  how  I  abjure  the  adven- 
ture of  that  fatal  night!  It  was  as  rash  as  it  was 
vain  —  as  uncounselled  as  it  was  unsuccessful. 
Blessed  be  the  moment  which  awoke  your  unforgiv- 
ing father,  and  restored  you  to  his  arms !  I  feel 
well  assured  that  he  never  would  have  pardoned  us,, 
and  misery  would  have  fallen  on  that  head  which  I 
would  give  my  life  to  shelter.  Farewell,  Bertha; 
and,  with  that  name,  farewell  to  many  a  dream  of 
happiness  !  Think  of  me  sometimes  —  think,  dearest 
girl,  of  one  who  can  never  cease  to  think  of  you  — 
never  cease  to  love  you.  E.  F." 

This  brief  epistle  was  fastened  with  a  seal  of  saf- 
fron-colored wax,  and  impressed  with  the  device  of  a 
broken  heart ;  and  I  am  told  that,  in  the  world  of 
love,  this  is  a  touching  allegory :  in  that  bewitching 
domain,  saffron  is  held  to  indicate  the  fact  of  being 
forsaken ;  and  the  device  of  the  broken  heart  is  the 
emblem  of  its  fatal  consequences. 

Bertha  read  her  letter  many  times,  and  then  she 
hid  it  in  her  bosom,  coldly  adding,  as  she  placed  the 
device  next  her  heart,  "  There  may  be  some  resem- 
blance soon ! " 

But  where  had  the  runaway  lover  concealed  him- 
self! No  one  knew.  The  remnant  of  his  property 
in  the  county  was  sold  off,  and  rumor  said  that  he 
had  embarked  his  all  in  a  large  vessel  which  had  sud- 
denly sailed  on  a  far-away  voyage. 


164  BERTHA    CLERVILLE. 

Time  rolled  on  ;  and  if  the  wounds  of  Bertha's 
fruitless  love  were  not  healed,  they  were  at  least  amply 
cicatrized,  when  she  was  called  upon  to  sustain  others, 
if  not  quite  so  poignant,  yet  of  as  lasting  and  impres- 
sive a  character.  The  declining  age  of  Clerville 
brought  with  it  some  accessories  which  that  old  gen- 
tleman could  well  have  spared.  The  bank,  in  which 
he  was  a  large  depositor,  stopped  payment.  The 
proprietors  had  speculated  far  beyond  their  means, 
and  by  their  own  ruin  caused  the  ruin  of  many. 
This  was  the  first  blast  of  adversity,  and  old  Clerville 
felt  it  bitterly,  not  only  in  his  own  large  pecuniary 
investments,  but  also  in  those  of  his  tenantry,  who, 
being  unable  to  pay  their  rents,  resigned  their  farms 
into  his  hands,  as  the  last  and  only  compensation  they 
could  make  to  a  liberal  proprietor.  And  then  came 
seasons  of  distress  ;  crops  failed,  and  cattle  died,  and 
as  a  climax  to  the  general  amount  of  sufferings,  the 
midnight  fires  of  the  heartless  incendiary  blazed  out 
through  all  the  southern  heavens.  It  was  indeed 
with  a  melancholy  heart  that  the  old  man  beheld  his 
property  vanishing  from  his  view,  like  the  gray  mists 
of  an  autumnal  morning  before  the  rising  sun  ;  and 
when  he  looked  upon  his  daughter,  he  felt  his  losses 
and  his  sorrows  in  a  twofold  degree.  Growing  still 
more  enfeebled,  he  sold  the  remainder  of  his  property, 
and  retired  to  spend  his  days  with  his  child  in  a  neat, 
small  cottage,  in  one  of  the  villages  of  the  very 
county  in  which  he  had  been  one  of  the  most  con- 
siderable landed  proprietors. 

Truly  has  it  been  said,  that  there  is  nothing  which 
tries  the  heart  like  adversity;  of  the  truth  of  thib 
apothegm,  Bertha  Clerville  alforded  a  noble  instance. 
She  left  her  father's  mansion  without  a  murmur  —  al- 
■/iiost  without  a  sigh.  And  if  she  did  sigh,  peradven- 
ture  it  was  only  when  the  thought  crossed  her  mind 


BERTHA    CLERVILLE.  165 

that  she  might  have  been  the  mistress  of  it  under  the 
guardianship  of  one  she  loved.  I  think,  if  such  a 
thing  were  possible,  tliat  Bertha  grew  more  attentive 
to  ail  her  fatiier's  wants;  and  when,  at  last,  blindness 
stole  over  the  visual  orbs  of  the  old  man,  —  as  if  to 
complete  the  wreck  of  fortune,  —  she  led  him  as  a 
mother  would  lead  a  tender  and  delicate  child.  She 
read  to  him  whole  colunms  of  the  County  Adver^ 
tiscr,  (at  that  time  in  high  request ;)  she  sung  to  him  ; 
she  watched  his  every  movement,  and  anticipated  his 
every  want ;  and  she  did  all  so  gently,  with  such  a  win- 
ning, grace-bespeaking  tenderness,  one  would  almost 
consent  to  have  been  old,  —  ay,  and  even  blind,  —  to 
have  been  the  object  of  so  much  sweet  officiousness, 
to  have  partaken  of  the  pure  serenity  which  that  gift- 
ed, generous  creature  shed  around  her. 

One  afternoon,  a  tine,  mellow  voice  was  heard  in 
the  village;  it  was  an  air  of  peculiar  beauty;  not  one 
of  the  "  melodies,"  now  so  called,  but  a  manly  Eng- 
lish ballad,  which  brought  to  mind,  in  plain,  but 
touching  terms,  some  unforgotten  traits  of  by-gone 
days. 

"Who  is  that  singing?"  said  Clerville  to  his 
daughter. 

"  A  mendicant,  father,"  said  Bertha,  "  old,  lame, 
and  —  " 

"jB/mf/.^"  said  Clerville,  with  emphasis. 

*'  Even  so,"  replied  Bertha,  bursting  into  tears,  as 
the  more  proximate  points  of  the  similarity  flashed 
upon  her  mind. 

"  Nay,  nay,"  said  the  old  man,  drawing  his  hand 
across  his  own  rayless  eyes,  "  thou  shouldst  be  more 
a  woman  now;  though  old  and  blind,  I  am  yet  rich 
in  thee.  Bertha.  Go,  call  the  stranger  in;  we  have  a 
shilling  still  to  spare  him." 

*'  We  have,"  said  Bertha,  *'  and  as  it  is  your  wish, 


166  EERTHA   CLEKVILLE. 

dear  father,  he  should  have  it  though  it  were  our 
last." 

"Noble  girl!"  ejaculated  Clerville;  "call  the 
stranger  in." 

The  stranger  was  called  in.  He  was  a  fine  old 
man  of  about  sixty ;  there  was  a  ruddy  brown  upon 
his  cheek,  and  his  thin  white  hair  flowing  profusely 
on  his  shoulders,  gave  him  an  appearance  truly  pa- 
triarchal. Clerville  asked  him  how  he  came  to  travel, 
as  he  politely  termed  the  mendicant's  profession.  The 
old  man  replied  that  he  had  seen  better  days  — 

The  unbidden  tears  sprang  to  the  eyes  of  poor 
Bertha. 

And  when  his  career  was  arrested  by  misfortunes, 
which  he  could  neither  avert  nor  sustain,  he  became 
a  day-laborer  in  the  fields;  and  when  at  length  he 
lost  his  sight  — 

Here  Bertha's  tears  fell  faster  than  before. 

He  applied  without  scruple  to  the  overseers  of  the 
poor.  He  confessed  that  at  first  he  did  entertain 
some  feelings  of  unnatural  pride;  but  when  he  began 
to  "reason  with  himself,"  as  he  termed  it,  he  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  there  were  far  more  pitiable 
objects  in  the  world  than  a  cheerful  old  man  in  a 
poor-house,  manfully  seeking  that  protection  which 
the  legal  provisions  of  his  country  afford  to  those 
who  are  incapable  of  maintaining  themselves.  But, 
after  all,  when  he  did  become  an  inmate,  he  found 
that  he  could  not  endure  the  confinement ;  his  soul 
grew  anxious  for  the  freshness  of  her  native  fields; 
the  sunshine  and  the  showers  were  linked  with  her 
existence ;  they  had  grown  together  from  youth  to 
manhood,  from  manhood  to  old  age,  and  they  could 
not  now  be  separated.  He  sought  and  gained  per- 
mission to  rove  about  his  native  dales,  and  share  the 
bounty  of  the  generous,  always  with  the  privilege  of 


BKRTHA    CLERVILLE.  167 

retiring  to  the  work-house  as  his  phice  of  rest.  He 
had  no  wish  to  die,  he  said ;  but  he  was  not  afraid 
of  deatli,  and  if  he  might  choose  the  time  and  man- 
ner of  his  departure,  it  should  be  at  the  close  of  a 
sweet  summer  day,  at  the  foot  of  some  green  knoll', 
which  he  had  bounded  over  when  prosperity  was 
upon  him,  and  which  he  had  trodden  with  manly 
resignation,  when  adversity  had  left  him  blind  and 
helpless,  # 

Such  was  the  stranger's  story,  and  Bertha  re- 
garded him  with  looks  of  the  deepest  compassion, 
as  the  fine  lines  of  the  poet  rose  involuntarily  to  her 
lips  — 

"  Confine  him  not; 
As  in  the  eye  of  nature  he  has  lived, 
So  in  the  eye  of"  nature  let  him  die." 

The  mendicant  received  his  gratuity  and  departed, 
invoking  blessing  on  the  heads  of  his  benefactors. 
For  a  space  the  brow  of  Clerville  became  troubled, 
and  his  breast  labored  with  emotion,  when  he  sud- 
denly sought  to  relieve  his  awakened  spirit  in  thanks- 
giving. He  rose  from  his  seat,  and  failing  on  his 
knees,  he  thanked  that  Providence  which  had  dealt 
with  him  in  mercy,  and  he  prayed  that  he  might  re- 
tain his  proper  feelings  of  gratitude  to  Him  who  or- 
ders everything;  whilst  his  lovely  daughter  clasped 
her  hands  and  bent  over  him  with  a  looR  of  the  most 
angel-like  affection,  forming  such  a  group  of  thanks- 
giving and  beauty,  as  the  chisel  of  Chantrey,  exquisite 
as  it  is,  has  never  yet  achieved. 

It  was  now  nearly  ten  years  since  Edward  Fores- 
ter had  expatriated  himself  from  his  native  land;  and 
in  all  that  time  it  was  never  known  that  one  line  of 
intelligence  had  been  received  from  him.  Indeed, 
to  whom  was  he  to  write  ?     I  know  of  but  one  who 


163 


BERTHA    CLERTILLE. 


could  satisfactorily  have  answered  that  question.  The 
truth  is,  that  Edward  had  been,  save  by  one,  perfectly 
forgotten  ;  but  now,  by  some  sudden  freak  of  fortune, 
he  began  to  be  recollected,  and  strange  store  of  wealth 
"ivas  associated  with  his  long-forgotten  name.  At 
length  the  County  Advertiser,  the  most  veracious  of 
all  country  papers,  announced  the  important  fact  as 
follows :  — 

"  From   information  on   which  we    can    rely,  we 

are  authorized  to  state  that  E F ,  Esq.,  the 

young  gentleman  who  left  this  country  several  years 
ago,  having  amassed  immense  wealth  in  the  Indies, 
is  on  the  eve  of  landing  on  his  native  shore,  deter- 
mined to  spend  the  remainder  of  his  days  on  his  own 
estate,  in  the  manner  most  becoming  the  habits  and 
character  of  an  English  country  gentleman." 

No  sooner  was  this  gracious  piece  of  intelligence 
duly  circulated  through  the  county,  than  som.e  of  the 
former  dependants  of  the  Foresters  insisted  upon 
going  all  the  lengths  of  lunacy  ;  they  rang  the  church 
bells;  they  kindled  bonfires  —  not,  I  am  glad  to  say, 
in  their  landlords'  stack-yards  ;  —  they  discharged  sun- 
dry rusty  pieces  of  ordnance,  called  fowling-pieces,  to 
the  great  terror  and  dismay  of  many  of  the  well- 
intentioned  inhabitants ;  and  they  would  have  baited 
a  bull,  but  for  the  best  reason  in  the  world,  namely, 
there  was  only  one  to  be  got,  and  it  was  so  old, 
so  stiff,  and  so  utterly  devoid  of  al!  proper  spirit  for 
such  a  ceremony,  that  the  idea  of  a  bull  bait  was 
formally  abandoned,  the  committee  of  management 
having  declared  that  he  (the  bull)  was  not  fit  to  toss 
a  bunch  of  radishes  from  his  nose! 

This  boisterous  joy,  and  the  cause  of  it,  was  not 
long  in  reaching  the  cottage  of  old  Clerville.  In- 
deed Bertha  had  herself  read  the  veritable  fact  in  the 
all-important  columns  of  the  County  oracle;  but  her 


BERTUA    CLERVILLE.  169 

trembling  tongue  and  her  quickly-throbbing  bosom 
would  not  allow  her  to  acquaint  her  father  with  the 
circumstance. 

Here  was  a  field  for  speculation!  —  the  circum- 
stances under  which  they  parted  —  the  lingering  years 
which  had  elapsed  —  and  the  circumstances  under 
which  they  were  probably  to  meet  again  —  all  these 
thronged  and  coursed  througii  poor  Bertha's  brain, 
till  she  was  well  nigh  bewildered.     At  one  time  hope 

—  that  sovereign  of  the  world  —  would  raise  his 
roseate  standard  in  her  bosom,  and  she  would  paint 
her  lover,  after  all  his  ardent  toils  beneath  the  sultry 
skies  of  ''  gorgeous  Ind,"  hastening  home  with  his 
accumulations  in  his  grasp,  and  new  offers  of  love 
and  attachment  on  his  lips,  and  laying  all  at  Jicr  feet 

—  hers,  who  had  loved  him  loI:ig  and  ardently,  through 
good  and  through  evil,  through  years  of  absence  and 
neglect,  in  sickness  and  in  health,  during  delirium, 
and  in  despair!  —  Jict^s,  who  would  have  sacrificed 
every  thing  but  honor,  and  who  well  nigh  periled 
that  for  him ;  who  would  have  been  resigned  to  live 
alone  for  the  love  she  bore  his  name  —  hers,  who, 
next  to  her  God,  held  him  to  be  the  highest  object  of 
deification  in  the  universe.  At  another  time,  she 
would  dwell  upon  the  effects  of  long  absence  and 
ever-varying  enterprise ;  how  many  scenes  of  high 
excitement  had  he  not  passed  through,  the  least  of 
them  enough  to  banish  her  and  all  their  rustic;  joys 
and  recollections  forever  from  his  memory !  and 
then  there  would  conle  the  last,  the  most  unwelcome 
thought  of  all, — Came  he  alone  from  that  far  land 
of  competence  and  crime?  or  was  there  not  some 
lovely  form  already  by  his  side,  whose  large  and  lus- 
trous eyes  were  even  now  emittmg  all  their  sun-lent 
radiance  on  his  countenance,  whose  swarthy  brow 
¥/as  reclining  on  that  very  bosom,  which  once  waa 


170 


BERTHA    CLERVILLE. 


j)rps.«!ed  by  the  pale  querist  alone?  and  when  her 
thoughts  took  such  a  turn,  she  hid  her  face  and  wept, 
for  she  knew  that  if  madness,  long  delayed,  did  come, 
it  would  be  through  that  avenue  that  the  frightful 
malady  must  pass. 

Clerville,  blind  and  broken  down  as  he  was  in  the 
comparison,  was  rejoiced  to  hear  of  the  young  man's 
success.  It  gave  h"m  no  pang.  He  had  lived  to  see 
the  evanescent  nature  of  wealth ;  and  he  prided  him- 
self on  his  knowledge  of  the  world.  He  was  anx- 
ious, however,  for  the  effc^ct  upon  poor  Bertha.  It 
was  long  since  he  could  see  the  expression  of  her 
pale  features ;  and  he  had  become  so  habituated  with 
her  sighs,  that  from  them  he  could  catch  no  index 
of  the  feeling  which  was  triumphing  beneath.  One 
morning,  however,  to  his  surprise,  Bertha  said,  tim- 
idly, *'  Father,  Edward  is  coming  home  !  " 

"  Ay,  Bertha,"  said  Clerville,  "  they  say  so,  my 
child ;  but  be  thou  not  deceived  ;  he  will  not  come  to 
thee.  No,  my  girl,  he  has  now  learnt  the  wisdom 
of  the  world,  and  he  will  carry  his  golden  ingots  to  a 
higher,  to  a  fairer  market." 

"Unjust,  ungenerous,  and  unkind!"  said  Bertha, 
her  gentle  spirit  roused  by  the  ungracious  opinion 
thus  expressed  on  the  absent  object  of  her  unbroken 
affection.  "  Edward  will  never  be  untrue  to  me, 
though  I  never  see  him  more  !  " 

"  And  yet  he  would  have  been  untrue  to  me !  '* 
said  the  old  man,  with  a  slight  tinge  of  vehemence  in 
his  manner. 

Bertha  rose  at  once,  and  threw  her  arms  about  his 
neck.  "  Father,  for  God's  sake,  let  us  not  talk  in 
this  manner;  I  am  not  mad  yet  but,  (and  she  pressed 
her  hand  upon  her  brow)  I  know  not  how  soon  I 
may  be ! " 

At  this  moment  a  smart  rap  was  heard  at  the  outer 


BERTHA    CLERVILLE.  171 

door  of  the  cottage,  and  in  the  next  moment  the  tall 
and  manly  ibrm  oi' Forester  was  standing  on  the  iloor 
beside  tlieni. 

"  Bertha  !  "  said  he,  ''  my  dear  Bertha,  I  am  come 
to  lay  my  life  and  fortune  at  your  feet." 

Bertha  was  overpowered;  she  pointed  for  one  mo- 
ment at  her  father,  and  fainted  in  her  long-lost  lover's 
arms. 

"Gracious  Heaven!"  said  Edward;  "Mr.  Cler- 
ville,  and  blind  !     I  did  not  hear  of  that !  " 

"  Do  not  insult  me,  young  man,"  said  Clerville. 

"No,  no,  no!"  said  Bertha,  opening  her  eyes,  and 
fixing  them  in  a  long  look  on  the  ardent  features  of 
her  lover  —  "no,  no,  no!  he  will  not,  he  cannot,  he 
does  not  mean  it !  " 

"  I  come  not  here  to  insult,"  said  Edward  ;  "  I  came 
to  entreat  —  old  men  (and  he  pressed  Clerville's  hand 
fervently)  —  old  men  should  forget — " 

"  And  forgive,"  said  the  father,  rising  majestically, 
and  pointing  upwards  with  a  slightly-tremulous  hand. 
""Old,  blind,  and  well  nigh  helpless  —  standing  on 
the  avv'ful  brink  of  dissolution  —  what  have  I  to  do 
with  hatred  more?  My  children,  your  trials  have 
been  many  and  severe ;  may  Heaven  bless  you  long 
together  !  " 

"Amen,  father,  amen!"  said  the  ardent  lover,  as 
he  again  pressed  the  blushing  Bertha  to  his  bosom. 

And  now  I  must  hasten  to  a  conclusion,  having, 
like  a  skilful  pilot,  run  my  little  narrative  into  a 
hnppy  haven,  after  all  the  perils  of,  I  fear,  a  tedious 
voyage.  Clerville  Manor  was  im.mediately  repur- 
chased, and  the  original  proprietor  reinstated  as  its 
ancient  lord  and  undisputed  master;  and  in  about 
*i)v  months,  a  gay  and  gallant  equipage  was  seen  to 
-.Gcne  from  amongst  the  stately  old  oaks  of  which  I 
iiave  elsewhere  spoken  in  my  history;  and,  moreover, 


172 


love's  recompence. 


that  same  equipage  wended  gayly  towards  the  church, 
into  which  many  a  bright  and  happy  countenance 
entered  —  and  there  was  one  white-haired,  sightless 
old  man,  who  clasped  his  hands  in  the  serenity  of 
silence,  and  seemed  happier  than  they  all !  For  my 
part,  I  had  always  thought  that  solemn  matters  were 
transacted  in  churches;  guess  my  astonishment,  there- 
fore, when  I  found,  after  the  return  of  the  equipage, 
that  the  friends  of  Mr.  Forester,  now  vastly  swelled 
in  numbers,  under  the  name  of  tenantry,  were  de- 
termined to  be  seven  times  more  mad  than  they  were 
before!  They  roasted  sheep  and  oxen  without  being 
at  the  trouble  of  cutting  them  to  pieces  —  they  drank 
whole  barrels  of  ale,  without  the  intervention  of  spigot 
and  faucet  —  they  rung,  and  rerung  the  bells  —  they 
kindled  the  bonfires  —  they  discharged  all  the  fowling- 
pieces  ;  and  the  bull  —  but  here  I  must  pause  —  I 
think  the  bull  was  not  baited  after  all 


LOVE'S    RECOMPENSE. 

It  was,  then,  in  that  beautiful  Vale  of  Vire, 
Bome  twenty  years  ago,  that  Francois  Lormier  went 
out  to  take  his  last  May  walk  with  Mariette  Duval, 
ere  the  relentless  conscription  called  him  from  his 
liappy  home,  his  sweet  valleys,  and  his  early  love.  It 
was  a  sad  walk,  as  may  well  be  imagined  ;  for  though 
the  morning  was  bright,  and  nature  —  to  her  shame  be 
it  spoken  —  had  put  on  her  gayest  smiles,  as  if  to  mock 
their  sorrow,  yet  the  sunshine  of  the  scene  could  not 
find  its  way  to  their  hearts,  and  all  seemed  darkened 
and  clouded  around  them.     They  talked  a  great  deaJ, 


love's  recompense.  173 

and  they  talked  a  long  time ;  but  far  be  it  from  me  to 
betray  their  private  conversation.  I  would  not,  for 
all  the  world  —  especially  as  I  know  not  one  word 
about  it  —  except,  indeed,  that  Francois  Lormier 
vowed  the  image  of  Mariette  should  remain  with  him 
forever  —  should  inspire  him  in  the  battle,  and  cheer 
him  in  the  bivouac  ;  and  that  Mariette  protested  that 
she  would  never  marry  any  body  except  Francois 
Lormier,  even  if  rich  old  Monsieur  Latoussefort,  the 
great  Foulan,  were  to  lay  himself  and  fortune  at  her 
feet;  and,  in  short,  that  when  his  "  seven  long  years 
were  out,"  Francois  would  find  her  still  a  spinster, 
and  very  much  at  his  service. 

'*  Mais  si  jc  perdrois  une  jamc  ?  "  said  Francois 
Lormier.  "  Qu^est  ce  que  c'a  fait  ?  "  replied  Mari- 
ette, They  parted — and  first  to  follow  the  lady. 
Mariette  wept  a  great  deal,  but  soon  after  got  calm 
again,  went  about  her  ordinary  work,  sang  her  song, 
danced  at  the  village  fete,  talked  with  the  talkers, 
laughed  with  the  laughers,  and  won  the  hearts  of  all 
the  youths  in  the  place,  by  her  unadorned  and  her 
native  grace.  But  still  she  did  not  forget  Francois 
Lormier ;  and  when  any  one  came  to  ask  her  in  mar- 
riage, the  good  dame,  her  mother,  referred  them 
directly  to  Mariette,  who  had  always  her  answer 
ready,  and  with  a  kind  word  and  a  gentle  look  sent 
them  away  refused,  but  not  offended.  At  length 
good  old  Monsieur  Latoussefort  presented  himself, 
with  all  his  money-bags,  declaring  that  his  only  wish 
was  to  enrich  his  gentle  Mariette;  but  Mariette  was 
steady,  and  so  touchingly  did  she  talk  to  him  about 
poor  Francois  Lormier,  that  the  old  man  went  away 
with  tears  in  his  eyes.  Six  months  afterwards  he 
died,  when,  to  the  wonder  of  the  v/hole  place,  he  left 
his  large  fortune  to  Mariette  Duval !  In  the  mean- 
while Francois  joined  the  army,  and,  from  a  light, 


174  love's   REC0MPEJTC2. 

handsome  conscript,  he  soon  became  a  brave,  steady 
soldier.  Attached  to  the  great  northern  army,  he 
underwent  all  the  hardships  of  the  campaigns  in 
Poland  and  Russia;  but  still  he  never  lost  his  cheer- 
fQlness,  for  the  thought  of  Mariette  kept  his  heart 
warm,  and  even  a  Russian  u'inter  could  not  freeze 
him. 

All  through  that  miserable  retreat,  he  made  the 
best  of  every  thing.  As  long  as  he  had  a  good,"  ten- 
der piece  of  saddle,  he  did  not  v/ant  a  dinner  ;  —  and 
when  he  mxCt  Vv'ith  a  comfortable  dead  horse  to  creep 
into,  he  found  board  and  lodging  combined.  His 
courage  and  his  powers  of  endurance  called  upon 
him,  from  the  first,  the  eyes  of  one  whose  best  quality 
was  the  impartiality  of  his  recompense.  Francois 
was  rewarded  as  well  as  he  could  be  rewarded;  but 
at  length,  in  one  of  those  unfortunate  battles  by 
which  Napoleon  strove  in  vain  to  retrieve  his  fortune, 
the  young  soldier,  in  the  midst  of  his  gallant  daring, 
was  desperately  wounded  in  the  arm.  Pass  we  over 
the  rest.  —  Mutilated,  sick,  weary,  and  rag2;ed, 
Francois  approached  his  native  valley,  and,  doubtful 
of  his  reception,  —  for  nsisery  makes  sad  misan- 
thropes, —  he  sought  the  cottage  of  Madame  Duval. 
The  cottage  was  gone;  and  on  inquiring  for  Madam.e 
Duval,"  he  was  directed  to  a  fine  farm.-house  by  the 
banks  of  the  stream.  He  thought  there  must  be 
some  m.istake;  but  yet  he  dragged  his  heavy  limbs 
thither,  and  knocked  timidly  against  the  door. 
*''  Entrcz!  "  cried  the  good-humored  voice  of  the  old 
dam.e.  Francois  entered,  and,  unbidden,  tottered  to  a 
chair, 

Madame  Duval  gazed  on  him  for  a  moment,  and 
then,  rushing  to  the  stairs,  called  loudly,  "  Come  down, 
Mariette,  come  down  ;  here  is  Francois  returned  1  " 
Like  lightning,  Mariette  darted  down  the  stairs,  saw 


THE    YOUNG    MIMSTER    AND    THE    BRIDE.         1 /i> 

the  soldier's  old  great  coat,  and  flew  towards  it  — 
stopped  —  gazed  on  his  haggard  face  and  empty  sleeve, 
and,  gasping,  fixed  her  eyes  upon  his  countenance. 
'Twas  for  a  moment  she  gazed  on  him  thus  in 
silence  ;  but  there  was  no  forgetfulness,  nor  coldness, 
nor  pride  about  her  heart ;  there  was  sorrow,  and 
joy,  and  love,  and  memory,  in  her  very  glance.  *'  O, 
Francois,  Francois ! "  cried  she,  at  length,  casting 
her  arms  round  his  neck,  "  how  thou  hast  suffered  !  " 
As  she  did  so,  tlie  old  great  coat  fell  back,  and  on 
his  breast  appeared  the  golden  cross  of  the  legion 
of  honor.  "  N'importe ! "  cried  she,  as  she  saw 
it,  "  voila  ta  recompensed  Pie  pressed  her  fondly  to 
his  bosom.  "  My  recompense  is  here,"  said  he,  *'  my 
recompense  is  here  ! " 


THE   YOUNG   MINISTER   AND   THE 
BRIDE. 

Few  will  deny  the  justice  of  the  remark,  that 
"  truth  is  often  stranger  than  fiction ;  "  no  one  of 
much  observation  and  experience,  at  least,  will  feel 
inclined  to  question  the  correctness  of  its  application 
to  the  scenes  and  vicissitudes  of  life.  There  are, 
indeed,  realities  of  no  very  unfrequent  occurrence, 
which,  in  point  of  marvellous  adventure,  heart-thrill- 
ing incident,  and  surprise,  may  be  said  to  exceed  any 
thing  that  mere  invention,  or  the  most  studied  com- 
bination of  ideal  circumstances,  can  ever  hope  to 
effect.  Had  we  only  ampler  opportunities  of  investi- 
gating those  short  and  simple  annals  to  which  our 
great  lyric  poet  so  philosophically  alludes,  —  could  we 


176  THE   YOUNG   MINISTER    AITO    THE   BRIDE. 

boast  but  the  rudest  chroniclers  of  those  sudden  revo- 
lutions and  sweeping  gusts  of  fortune  connected  with 
the  fate  of  individuals  and  the  people,  as  \ve  do  of 
courts  and  empires,  —  what  inexhaustible  sources  of 
popular  interest  and  instruction  should  we  there  find  ! 
The  most  attractive  novels  would  almost  cease  to 
charm,  till  we  had  first  exhausted  the  more  wonderful 
histories,  —  the  domestic  events  and  tragic  adventures 
of  living  beings,  even  in  the  humblest  sphere. 

I  was  led  into  this  train  of  reflection  by  recalling 
some  singular  occurrences  of  which  a  friend  of  mine 
and  myself  were  casual  witnesses  more  than  forty  years 
ago;  for  I  now  feel  these  reminiscences  of 'earlier 
days  recurring  with  more  and  more  force,  as  I  grad- 
ually descend  deeper   into   the  vale    of   Time.     My 

friend  B had  just  completed  a  severe  course  of 

legal  studies,  which,  together  with  carrying  high 
honors  at  one  of  our  universities,  was  found  a  little 
too  much  for  his  strength.  To  counteract  the  eifects 
of  his  intense  and  unremitting  exertions,  he  invited 
me  to  take  a  summer  ramble  with  him  among  his  na- 
tive hills.  He  proposed  to  visit  both  the  English  and 
Scottish  lakes,  near  the  former  of  which  was  situated 
his  father's  residence;  to  proceed  next  to  the  Hig'h- 
lands;  and,  last  of  all,  to  pursue,  "tour"  in  hand, 
the  track  of  our  great  English  Leviathan  —  that  most 
majestic  and  magisterial  of  all  travellers,  in  his  Boz- 
zonian  ramble  among  the  Hebrides. 

After  remaining,  during  a  few  weeks,  at  the  coun- 
try-seat of  my  friend's  father,  we  repaired  to  explore 
the  extended  and  lofty  range  of  hills  that  brings  us, 
as  it  were,  into  the  heart  of  the  English  lake  scenery. 
On  the  second  evening  of  our  departure,  we  stopped 

at  the  little  hamlet  of  D -,  consisting  only  of  a 

few  shepherds'  huts,  in  order  to  enjoy  the  glories  of 
Bunrise  on  Skiddaw  after  a  night's  repose.     Here, 


THE    YOUNa   MINISTER    AND    THE    BRIDE.         177 

under  the  roof-tree  of  an  old  herdsman,  who  had 
been  promoted  to  the  rank  of  a  guide,  —  a  little  pub- 
lican, and,  as  far  as  excess  in  liquor  was  concerned, 
not  a  little  of  a  sinner,  —  we  were  brought  acquainted, 
during  our  evening  chat,  with  some  of  the  current 
reports  of  the  village,  relating  to  the  affairs  of  our 
more  important  neighbors. 

Near  this  little  hamlet,  it  seems,  at  the  foot  of  the 
hill  stretching  westward,  lay  the  ample   domains  of 

the   wealthy  Lord   L ,  lorming  part    of  one  of 

those  fertile  and  cultivated  districts,  which  betoken 
the  nenr  abundance  of  the  rich,  loamy  soil  of  the 
northern  graziers.  Its  present  possessor  had  re- 
turned within  the  last  year  from  the  continent,  to 
reside  at  the  seat  of  his  forefathers,  and  find  employ- 
ment for  the  well-lined  coffers  of  his  immediate 
predecessor.  The  new  lord,  we  were  informed,  was 
now  on  the  eve  of  forming  a  union  with  one  of  the 
fairest  girls  in  the  country,  —  the  daughter  of  his  fa- 
ther's old  friend,  the  late  member  for  K ,  a  gen- 
tleman who,  by  his  imprudence,  had  left,  at  his  death, 
a  large  family  involved  in  considerable  difficulties 
and  embarrassment.  The  late  Lord  L ,  how- 
ever, had  not  only  materially  assisted  them,  but  had 
even  consented  that  the  family  union,  long  before 
projected  between  his  friend's  daughter  and  his  own 
con,  should  still  take  place.  This,  too,  was  an  ob- 
ject in  which  the  mother  of  Margaret  Dillon  —  al- 
ready betrothed  to  the  scion  of  L House  before 

his  departure  for  foreign  lands  —  was  more  particu- 
larly interested,  having  several  younger  children  al- 
most wholly  unprovided  for.  Circumstances,  there- 
fore, seemed  to  render  it  imperative  on  the  eldest  to 
fiilfd  her  mother's  wishes;  and  only  by  some  strange 
perversity  of  fate  was  such  an  alliance  likely  to  prove 
an  unhappy  one, 

12 


178 


THE   YOUNG   MINISTER   AND    THE   BRIDE. 


The  lovely  Margaret  was  then  in  her  seventeenth 
year,  while  her  intended  lord  was  nearly  as  many 
summers  older,  and  by  no  means  of  that  prepossess- 
ing character  and  exterior,  nor  of  that  lofty  reputa- 
tion and  rare  report,  calculated  to  win  "  golden  opin- 
ions" from  ail  manner  of  women.  The  marriage, 
however,  was  to  have  taken  place  on  his  return, 
without  much  consideration  of  reciprocal  feeling, 
and  had  been  delayed  only  in  consequence  of  the 
sudden  demise  of  his  lordship's  father.  His  return, 
we  were  told,  had  been  marked  by  no^'ej^pression  of 
joy  on  the  part  of  his  tenantry  and  retainers;  nor, 
what  was  more  to  be  regretted,  on  tlie  part  of  the 
intended  bride  herself,  who  was,  on  the  other  hand, 
said  to  be  a  favorite  with  all  classes  of  her  acquaint- 
ance. 

If  the  new  lord,  however,  had  failed  to  make  him- 
self liked,  this  did  not  seem  to  be  the  case  with  a 
young  clergyman  in  the  vicinity,  of  the  name  of 
Maurice  Dunn,  whose  noble  look,  and  high,  yet  gentle 
bearing,  we  had  already  noticed  on  our  approach, 
who  respectfully  saluted  us,  and  whom  we  did  not 
fail  to  recognize  by  the  description  and  encomiums 
of  the  ancient  herdsman.  He  was  the  eldest,  we 
learned,  of  a  large  family,  and,,  being  a  youth  of 
talents,  was,  after  receiving  an  excellent  education, 
at  no  small  sacrifices  on  the  part  of  his  father,  ap- 
pointed to  a  curacy  near  his  native  place.  He  was 
looked  up  to  as  the  future  staff  of  his  family ;  for  old 
Maurice  Dunn  was  only  one  of  those  small  land- 
owners belonging  to  the  better  class  of  yeomanry  — 
a  class,  unfortunately,  now  nearly  extinct  in  England. 
In   addition  to  his  own  little    property,   he  had  the 

chief  part  of  his  farm  under  Lord  L ,  by  means 

of  which,  with  laudable  industry,  he  was  enabled  to 
support  a  numerous  family,  and  bring  up  one  of  his 


THE    YOUNG    MINISTER    AND    THE    BRIDE.         179 

Fons  to  a  profession,  —  then  always  the  worthy  ambi- 
tion of  men  of  his  class,  —  to  say  nothing  of  making 
himself  comfortable  during  his  latter  days.  Besides 
his  own  spiritual  charge,  his  son,  we  are  informed, 
was  accustomed  to  assist  the  aged  minister  of  another 
cure,  taking  upon  himself,  out  of  special  good  will, 
at  least  half  the  duty  and  the  more  distant  visitations 
of  the  poor  and  sick,  insomuch  that  it  was  hoped, 
by  many  honest  parishioners,  he  would  one  day  come 
to  succeed  old  Mn  Penruddock  in  his  rectory,  as 
well  as  in  his  labors. 

Among  his  most  constant  hearers  were  Mrs.  Dillon 
and  her  daughter;  and,  in  the  character  both  of  a 
pastor  and  a  tutor,  Maurice  Dunn  was  admitted  like 
a  friend,  more  than  a  visitor,  at  the  lady's  house^ 
Here  his  fine  taste  and  natural  skill  in  music,  draw- 
ing, and  almost  every  accomplishment,  recommended 
him  to  his  pupils  far  more  than  his  knowledge  of  the 
severer  branches  of  learning.  But  no  one,  in  the 
circle  he  knew,  boasted  the  same  irresistible  interest 
and  attractions  in  his  eyes  as  the  beautiful,  the  grace- 
ful, and  the  gentle-souled,  intelligent  Margaret. 

Was  it  possible,  then,  that,  by  any  dark  conspiracy 
of  the  fates,  it  had  been  the  bounden  duty  of  Maurice 
Dunn  to  unite  the  fair  hand  of  the  being  he  most 
adored  on  earth  to  another,  to  pronounce  the  nuptial 
benediction  upon  her  as  a  bride,  and  to  consign  all 
his  cherished  love  to  unavailing  bitterness  and  tears? 
From  the  rude,  unvarnished  account  of  our  ancient 
chronicler,  so  dreadful  a  sacrifice  appeared  about  to 
be  made ;  and  in  that  mode,  and  under  those  evil  au- 
spices, which  leave  not  a  moral  possibility  of  escape. 

Finding  this  melancholy  wedding  was  to  take  place 
next  day,  and  that  the  church  lay  in  our  route,  we 
agreed,  before  retiring  to  rest,  to  accompany  our 
wort^iy  host  to  wiuieSs  the  ceremony. 


180 


THE   YOUNG   MINISTER    AND    THE   BRIDE. 


The  next  morning  saw  us  on  our  way  to  the  church 
of  L ,  *'  some  twa  long  miles,"'  as  we  were  as- 
sured by  our  conductor,  but  which  turned  out,  ac- 
cording to  our  more  southern  calculation,  to  be  at 
least  four.  Upon  our  arrival,  we  found  that  the 
bridal  procession  was  already  there,  and  had  passed 
into  the  interior   of  the  holy  edifice. 

We  took  our  station  as  near  as  the  throng  per- 
mitted us  to  the  altar.  The  minister  already  stood 
before  it ;  the  bride  and  bridegroom  at  a  little  dis- 
tance; and  we  could  easily  distinguish  their  counte- 
nances, and  observe  all  that  passed.     The  rest  of  the 

party   comprised  Lord  L ~'s  friends,  the  bride's^ 

and  those  of  the  young  minister;  among  the  last  of 
whom  was  seen  his  venerable  father,  whose  eye 
frequently  turned  with  an  expression  of  pride  and 
pleasure  upon  his  son.  That  son,  indeed,  seemed 
one  to  deserve  the  admiration  with  which  he  was 
so  generally  regarded ;  —  his  noble  figure,  handsome 
features,  and  dignified  air  and  deportment,  contrasted 
strongly  with  the  mean  and  insignificant  appearance^ 
spite  of  his  girdled  trappings,  that  marked  the  bride- 
groom. But  what  most  riveted  my  attention,  was 
the  singularly  resolute  and  concentrated  expression 
m  the  features  of  the  minister,  as  if  they  had  been 
well  schooled  to  some  desperate  task.  Firm  in  spirit^ 
and  calm  in  mood,  he  looked  like  one  whose  thoughts 
were  above,  or  absent  from,  all  considerations  of  the 
scene  by  which  he  was  surrounded ;  as  if  the  world y 
its  weal  or  woe,  with  all  its  vicissitudes,  marriages, 
and  deaths,  were  alike  indifferent  events  to  him.  Yet 
a  close  observer  might  detect  traces  of  something 
forced  and  strange,  that  excited  a  painful  sensation 
in  the  beholder,  and  seemed  to  betoken  little  of  a 
peaceful  mind.  And  now  my  fancy  began  to  fill  up 
the  rude  and  simple  sketch  of  him,  drawn  by  our 


THE    YOUNG    MINISTER    AND    THE    BRIDE.         181 

aged  guide :  after  what  I  had  heard,  there  was  a 
meaning  in  all  I  saw.  Sudden  gleams  of  thought 
seemed  to  ''come  and  go,  like  shadows"  flitting 
across  his  brain,  and  darkening  on  his  features,  even 
against  his  resolute  will.  An  unearthly  paleness  sat 
upon  his  brow,  strongly  contrasted  with  the  hectic 
glow  which  flushed  his  cheek.  There  was  a  slight 
convulsive  motion  of  the  eyebrows  and  the  edge  of 
the  lips,  which  neither  the  bent  brow,  nor  the  fixed 
expression  of  the  mouth,  could  quite  repress.  The 
same  nervous  affection,  I  was  near  enough  to  observe, 
was  in  his  hands  —  they  trembled,  though  his  general 
demeanor  was  firm  and  collected.  What  most  struck 
me,  were  a  restlessness  and  eagerness  of  purpose, 
mixed  with  a  feeling  of  intense  pain,  which  were 
plainly  reflected  in  the  face  of  our  honest  guide,  and 
presented  a  perfect  picture  of  rustic  perturbation, 
curiosity,  and  awe. 

I  now  also  observed  his  father's  eye  more  than 
once  directed  towards  Maurice  Dunn  with  an  uneasy 
look,  as  if  for  the  first  time  he  had  detected  some- 
thing that  gave  him  pain.  He  then  looked  towards 
the  bride  and  bridegroom  with  the  same  uneasy  glance, 
as  if  to  inquire  the  meaning  of  what  he  saw.  Other 
eyes,  too,  were  directed  towards  the  minister  ;  but  he 
seemed  too  deeply  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts  to 
heed  what  was  passing  around  him.  If  his  eye  met 
another's,  it  was  with  fixed  coldness  and  almost 
haughtiness  of  air ;  yet  that  pride  appeared  forced, 
as  if  there  were  something  he  wished  to  conceal  from 
the  scorn  or  pity  of  the  world.  To  me,  the  expres- 
sion of  his  face,  though  composed,  was  one  of  suffer 
ing,  deep-seated  and  intense, — so  well  subdued,  as 
tscarcely  to  be  detected  without  previous  knowledge 
of  the  cause.  It  might  be  the  effect  of  mere  physical 
pain  or  sickness  —  not  of  the  heart ;  and  there  seemed 


182  THE    YOUNG    MINISTER    AND    THE    BRIDE. 

too  much  pride  in  his  stern  eye  to  betray  its  existence, 
were  it  there.  AUogether,  his  bearing  was  not  that 
of  a  holy  minister  prepared  to  pronounce  a  nuptial 
blessing  upon  the  happy,  the  beautiful,  and  young ; 
for  what  had  that  expression  of  pride  and  reckless 
indifference  to  do  with  an  occasion  like  this?  On 
the  contrary,  he  seemed  to  glory  in  despising  all 
those  human  sympathies  and  attachments  which  he 
was  there  called  upon  to  hallow  and  unite. 

As  thus  stern  he  stood  and  looked,  how  fared  it 
with  that  lovely  and  gentle  bride,  who  had  come  to 
claim  his  nuptial  benediction  upon  herself  and  her 
ill-assorted  lord?  Had  she,  indeed,  selected  such  a 
lover  in  some  hour  of  wounded  pride  or  scorn,  when 
her  heart  had  been  crushed  or  wrung  with  anguish? 
or  was  the  marriage  yet  more  fearfully  her  evil  lot  ? 
Was  it  with  such  a  being  she  had  wandered  during 
the  summer  seasons  of  her  love,  amidst  the  forest 
bowers,  and  heaths,  and  hills  of  her  native  spot? 
Was  it  with  him  she  had  visited  the  sorrowing  and 
the  sick,  and  gladdened  the  hearts  of  the  orphan  and 
the  widow,  and  made  the  homes  and  hearts  of  the 
poor  and  comfortless  sing  for  joy  ?  Ah,  no  !  he  was 
not  her  companion  ;  —  it  was  with  Maurice  Dunn,  that 
minister  of  wretchedness  who  was  about  to  wed  her 
to  another,  that  she  had  talked  in  sweet  communion 
of  spirit,  during  these  sacred  and  too  well  remembered 
walks.  But  they  were  driven  to  fulfil  their  evil  des- 
tiny :  there  was  no  retreat,  no  escape  for  Maurice 
Dunn.  He  had  vowed  it,  and  to  redeem  his  pledge 
he  now  stood  a  sacrifice  at  the  altar  of  his  God.  He 
knew  his  love  was  hopeless,  and  she,  too,  knew  it; 
yet,  had  he  spoken  the  word,  she  would  have  flown 
with  him  even  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earthy 
Alas !  this  one  hope  she  had  garnered  up  in  her  heart 
as  the  last  resource ;  but  he  had  urged  it  not ;  and  she 


THE    YOUNG    MINISTER    AND    THE    BRIDE.         183 

there  stood  before  him,  —  all  her  woman's  pride  and 
desperation,  added  to  the  tortures  of  her  love,  sum- 
moned to  bear  her  through  the  dreaded  task.  A 
strange,  unnatural  lustre  shone  in  her  eye ;  it  could 
be  seen  through  the  folds  of  her  veil ;  and  one  in- 
stinctively turned  away  from  it  with  something  of 
the  same  wild  or  perturbed  feeling,  —  a  feeling  that 
seemed  to  spread  its  contagious  sympathy  to  all  around. 
Her  face  was  exquisitely  beautiful,  but  almost  as  white 
as  the  dress  she  wore ;  and  she  looked  most  lovely, 
in  spite  of  the  deep-seated  sadness  it  betrayed.  Her 
figure  was  strikingly  graceful ;  her  head  was  slightly 
drooping ;  but  there  was  an  air  of  dignity  in  her  whole 
deportment,  as  if  emulating  that  of  him  who  stood 
before  her  in  the  fixed  and  concentrated  passion  of 
his  doom. 

It  appeared  to  me  as  if  there  prevailed  through 
the  whole  party  a  certain  consciousness  of  something 
wrong,  —  of  some  struggle  or  impending  evil  to  be 
encountered;  but  this  I  attributed  to  mere  fancy, 
until  subsequently  it  was  remarked  to  have  been  felt 
by  others  as  well  as  by  myself 

While  engaged  in  reading  the  marriage  service, 
which  he  pronounced  in  a  bold  and  clear  tone,  the 
young  minister  had  his  eye  somewhat  sternly  fixed 
on  the  two  beings  whom  he  addressed ;  his  calm 
brow,  his  lofty  figure,  and  deep-toned  voice,  giving 
double  solemnity  to  his  words.  At  length  he  took 
the  bride's  hand,  as  if  to  place  it  in  that  of  her  in- 
tended lord ;  and  it  was  then,  for  the  first  time,  that 
one  thrill  of  feeling  seemed  to  shake  his  whole  frame. 
He  almost  started  back,  as  if  he  had  trodden  on  a 
serpent;  for  he  had  felt  that  hand  more  deathly  cold 
and  trembling  than  his  own.  Each  seemed  to  rec- 
ognize the  death-damp  touch,  and,  shuddering^,  to 
shrink  from  it.     To  me  it  was  evident  that  she  sought 


184  THE  YOUNG   MINISTER   AND    THE   BRIDE. 

to  release  her  hand  at  the  moment  when  it  was  placed 
in  that  of  the  bridegroom  ;  but  the  minister,  recover- 
ing himself  almost  instantaneously,  hurried  over  the 
remaining  service,  and  still  more  rapidly  uttered  the 
nuptial  blessing. 

The  fatal  words  were  pronounced;  and,  as  he 
closed  the  book,  he  raised  his  eyes  to  the  bride's 
face  as  if  to  take  one  farewell  look.  Their  eyes 
met ;  she  felt  and  returned  that  look,  but  with  a  wild 
expression  of  woman's  agony  and  reproach,  which 
years  have  not  since  obliterated  from  my  memory, 
nor  from  that,  I  think,  of  any  one  who  witnessed  it. 
It  would  appear  as  if  till  then  she  had  believed  it 
impossible,  that  he  whom  she  loved  would  meet  her 
there  to  execute  so  fearful  and  soul-rending  a  sentence 
on  all  her  love.  It  appeared  to  have  chilled  the  very 
life-blood  in  her  veins;  for,  regardless  of  all  else 
around  her,  she  stood  rooted  to  the  spot,  as  if  en- 
tranced in  woe.  She  still  kept  her  eye  fixed  on  the 
minister,  who  had  shrunk  in  apparent  terror  from 
that  one  heart-rending  look ;  but,  as  if  in  answer  to 
it,  his  own  was  now  directed  towards  his  father,  sur- 
rounded by  his  numerous  family.  She  understood 
him ;  it  was  the  sole  reply  he  could  give ;  and, 
stretching  out  her  hand  to  him,  as  if  to  beg  his  for- 
giveness for  upbraiding  him,  she  let  her  head  fall 
upon  his  breast,  and  wept. 

Thus  was  divulged  the  previous  secret  of  their 
iove  —  all  that  had  before  passed  ;  thus  were  revealed 
their  cruel  sufferings,  their  vain  prayers  and  tears, 
sternly  enforced  duty,  and  sad  submission  to  their 
fate.  This  painful  scene  was  accompanied  by  min- 
gled murmurs  and  imprecations,  or  by  sobs  and  tears, 
from  every  spectator ;  but  a  more  trying  crisis  was  at 
hand.  With  that -one  distracted  look,  and  the  tears 
of  her  he  had  just  wedded  to  another  wet  upon  his 


THE    YOUNG   MINISTER   AND    THE    BRIDE.         185 

bosom,  were  crowded  the  sufferings  of  the  young 
martyr  to  duty  and  to  love.  After  fixing  his  eye 
upon  his  father,  and  supporting  the  sobbing  bride  for 
a  moment  in  his  arms,  he  saw  and  felt  no  more.  His 
heart  was  broken  ;  agony  had  burst  its  walls.  The 
blood  rushed  up  in  torrents  through  his  mouth  and 
ears,  and  he  fell  dead  at  the  foot  of  the  altar. 

One  piercing  shriek  was  heard ;  it  arose  above 
every  other  voice,  as  the  young,  distracted  bride 
threw  herself  in  passionate  agony  on  her  lover's 
body ;  and  the  house  of  God  resounded  only  with 
the  voice  of  grief  Long  insensibility  came  merci- 
fully to  her  relief,  and  in  that  state  the  unhappy  lady 
was  borne  from  the  church,  her  white  bridal  robes 
stained  with  the  blood  of  him  to  whom  she  would 
have  been  happy  to  have  been  united  even  in  death. 
Nor  was  it  very  long  before  the  prayer  which  ever 
after  rose  to  her  lips  was  granted  to  her  sufferings. 

Accompanied  by  my  friend,  I  instantly  left  the 
place ;  and,  in  the  deep,  sequestered  solitudes  of  the 
woods  and  mountains,  we  for  a  time  sought  to  forget 
the  painful  impression  this  event  had  produced. 

It  was  about  two  years  after  our  return,  that  we 
requested  one  of  our  friends,  then  on  a  visit  near  the 
village  of  L ,  to  inquire  into  the  fate  of  the  un- 
happy bride.  He  visited  the  churchyard,  and  near 
the  humbler  stone  that  marked  the  grave  of  Maurice 

Dunn,  rose  the  family  vault  of  the  lords  of  L . 

The  last  name  that  had  been  there  inscribed  was  that 

of  Margaret,  countess  of  L ,  who  died  in  the  21st 

year  of  her  age.  It  was  only  the  second  of  her  ill- 
starred  marriage. 


186 


TRADITION   OF  KOLANDSECK. 


TRADITION   OF   ROLANDSECK. 

RoLANDSECK  is,  in  itself,  a  solitary  ruin  ;  but  it 
commands  prospects  of  most  delicious  scenery,  ro- 
mantic and  picturesque  beyond  description.  The 
rock  upon  which  it  stands  overlooks  the  island  of 
Rolandsvvert,  which  is  in  the  middle  of  the  Rhine. 

The  remains  of  this  ruin  on  the  side  of  the  river 
are  in  good  preservation,  but,  on  the  opposite  side, 
they  are  decayed,  and  overgrown  with  ivy  and  bram- 
bles. Schiller  has  made  this  scenery  the  subject  of  an 
interesting  ballad,  but  has,  in  his  description,  trans- 
ferred it  to  Switzerland.  The  tradition  of  the  origin 
of  this  castle  is  as  follows:  —  The  noble  cavalier, 
Roland,  nephew  of  Charlemagne,  during  the  long, 
and,  to  him,  wearisome  repose  of  peace,  wandered 
frequently  in  the  environs  of  Ingelheim,  and  from, 
thence  down  to  the  shores  of  the  Rhine.  Overtaken 
by  night  in  one  of  his  rambles,  at  the  entrance  of  the 
domains  of  a  castle,  he  requested  the  hospitality  of 
the  owner,  and  was  immediately  received  by  him 
with  that  noble  frankness  which  so  distinguished  this 
chivalric  age.  The  cavalier  of  the  castle  grasped  his 
hand  with  that  hearty  cordiality  which  bespoke  the 
meeting  of  old  friends,  rather  than  that  of  strangers, 
and  Hildegonde,  his  daughter,  set  before  him  bread 
and  wine,  the  symbol  of  hospitality,  with  all  that  grace- 
ful naivete  for  which  her  youth  was  distinguished. 
The  goblet  was  embossed  with  the  family  arms  of  the 
host,  and  Hildegonde  presented  it  with  that  amiable 
modesty  which  increased  the  interest  her  unfolding 
attractions  created  in  every  beholder.  Roland  ac- 
cepted the  goblet  from  her  hand,  and,  what  he 
thought  was  singular,  his  own  hands  trembled,  and 


TRADITION   OF   ROLANDSECK.  1^7 

he  blushed,  he  knew  not  why.  "  What !  "  said  he  to 
himself,  "  is  this  the  firm  arm,  of  which,  when  hold- 
ing the  cimeter,  a  muscle  never  flinched?  Is  this  the 
same  countenance  of  which  hordes  of  Saracens  could 
never  disconcert  a  feature?"  He  recovered  himself, 
and  began  to  speak  of  the  feats  of  war,  and  of  the 
great  political  views  of  his  renowned  sovereign.  They 
retired  to  rest,  but  Roland  could  not  close  his  eyes ; 
the  image  of  Hildegonde  continually  presented  itself 
before  him. 

The  next  day  he  prepared  to  depart ;  he  felt  a 
difficulty  in  making  known  his  name,  lest  they  should 
deem  it  necessary  to  pay  him  that  homage  which  a 
name  so  justly  celebrated  every  where  received.  Old 
Raymond,  his  host,  was  transported  beyond  measure 
at  having  entertained  the  hero  of  chivalry  within  his 
walls,  and  pressed  him  to  pass  another  day  in  his 
castle,  which  he  consented  to  do.  The  prudent 
Hildegonde  said  not  a  word  ;  but  it  was  easy  to  see 
this  arrangement  was  not  displeasing  to  her. 

Roland  remamed  many  days.  His  passiQn  for 
Hildegonde  increased  so  as  to  overcome  all  his  ti- 
midity, and  he  only  waited  for  a  proper  opportunity  to 
declare  himself.  This  occasion  soon  offered.  Walk- 
ing one  day  in  the  grounds,  he  found  Hildegonde  sit- 
ting on  a  bank,  her  hands  joined  as  if  in  prayer. 
Roland  approached  her,  and  was  studying  how  he 
should  commence  the  conversation,  when  Hilde- 
gonde plucking  a  rose  from  its  branch,  Roland  re- 
quested her  to  give  it  to  him,  saying,  "  No  symbol  of 
remembrance  of  any  fair  dame  has  hitherto  decorated 
the  plumes  of  my  helmet,  and,  when  other  cavaliers 
have  boasted  of  the  charms  and  virtues  of  their 
chosen  fair  ones,  my  untouched  heart  has  responded 
in  silence."  The  countenance  of  Hildegonde  was 
instantly  covered  will}  crimson;  she  was  surprised, 


18S 


TRADITION   OF   ROLANDSECK. 


and  taken  off  her  guard :  a  movement  of  her  hand 
seemed  to  indicate  a  wish  to  give  him  the  rose,  yet  a 
modest  circumspection  seemed  to  make  her  waver. 
But  the  eyes  of  Roland  entreated;  their  silence  was 
so  expressive,  that  she  acceded  to  the  first  impulse, 
and,  in  giving  the  rose  to  him,  said,  "  That  which  is 
beautiful  is  of  short  duration."  Roland  took  cour- 
age, spoke  of  his  love,  and  Hildegonde  with  a  look 
told  him,  that  he  need  not  be  in  doubt  of  a  suitable 
return.  The  lovers  vowed  eternal  fidelity  ;  and  Ro- 
land obtained  her  consent,  that,  at  the  close  of  the 
approaching  campaign  against  the  infidels,  he  should 
return  to  the  Rhine,  and  claim  her  as  his  bride. 
Adieus  are  generally  tranquil,  but  they  are  melan- 
choly. A  simple  pressure  of  the  hand  was  all  that 
their  emotion  permitted ;  their  eyes,  however,  de- 
clared eloquently  the  sentiments  which  their  faltering 
tongues  could  not  express. 

Hildegonde  passed  the  period  of  absence  in  the 
most  secluded  manner.  She  thought  of  nothing  but 
the  news  expected  from  her  lover.  At  length  it 
came  —  news  of  bloody  combats,  of  perilous  actions, 
of  deeds  of  heroic  bravery;  and,  the  name  of  Roland 
always  exalted  above  all  others,  the  general  subject 
of  his  exploits  became  the  song  of  the  boatmen  on 
the  Rhine.  Months,  however,  passed  away,  and  the 
long  year  of  absence  from  him  she  held  most  dear  in 
the  world  was  about  to  close;  and  it  finished  with 
the  happy  intelligence  of  a  glorious  peace,  which 
would  enable  our  hero  to  return  covered  with  laurels. 

One  night  a  cavalier  appeared  at  the  castle  gates, 
and  requested  the  hospitality  of  Raymond  until  the 
following  day.  It  proved  to  be  one  of  Roland's 
companions  in  arms,  a  brave  warrior,  who  had  fol- 
lowed Charlemagne  in  this  famous  expedition.  Agi- 
•tated  and  restless,  Hildegonde  at  length  ventured  to 


TRADITION    OF    ROLANDSECK.  Ib9 

♦  ♦ 

&p*«k  of  Roland.  "*Alts!"  said  the  stranger,  "I 
saw  him  fall  by  my  side,  covered  with  glory,  but 
piejceu  bv  mortal  wounds."  HiJdegonde  ceased  to 
speak ;  she  not  even  shed  tears,  which  would  so  much 
have  relieved  her  oppressed  heart.  Absorbed  by  the 
sole  thought  of  her  loss,  she  stood  as  immovable 
and  inanmiate  as  a  marble  statue.  After  eight  days 
spent  in  the  most  profound  grief,  she  took  the  reso- 
lution of  quitting  the  world,  which  now  contained 
nothing  of  interest  to  her;  and,  having  obtained  her 
father's  sanction,  she  entered  the  convent  of  Nonen- 
worth,  and  there  took  the  veil.  The  bishop  of  the 
diocese  being  allied  to  her  family,  the  term  of  her 
probation  was  shortened ;  and  three  months  had 
scarcely  elapsed  before  she  had  pronounced  her  vows. 
A  fatal  precipitation  !  which  brought  misery  and  death 
upon  two  devoted  lovers. 

Roland  suddenly  made  his  appearance  at  the  castle 
of  Raymond,  to  which  Hildegonde  had  forever  bade 
adieu ;  he  came  to  seek  her  and  fulfil  his  vows,  by 
leading  her  to  the  altar.  Deep  wounds  had  reduced 
his  strength,  and  he  fell  exhausted  from  the  loss  of 
blood,  which  had  given  rise  to  the  report  of  his 
death.  He  had,  however,  met  with  friends,  who  had 
been  assiduous  in  their  care  of  him,  and  had  restored 
him  to  health.  He  now  heard,  with  grief,  of  the  in- 
dissoluble ties  which  Hildegonde  had  formed,  and 
which  separated  her  from  him  forever.  The  arms 
which  had  covered  him  with  glory  he  now  threw  off 
with  disgust,  and,  retiring  to  the  neighborhood  of  Ro- 
landswert,  he  built  the  castle  of  Rolandseck,  upon  a 
rock  which  overlooked  the  convent  of  Nonensworth, 
and  which  he  named  his  hermitage. 

Here  he  spent  whole  days  at  the  door  of  his  cell, 
with  his  eyes  riveted  upon  the  spot  where  his  faithful 
Hildegonde  languished  out  her  days.     At  the  sound 


M^^jii^fi^%^  Ji%itU^^^^''^ 


190  ^h  TKADITION   OF  «OLANBSECE. 

of  the  matin-bell  he  rose,'  'Snd,  listening  to  thi»  an 
gelic  voices  of  the  choir,  frequently  he  thought  n« 
could  distinguish  the  voice  of  Hildegonde;  and, 
when  the  evening  star  had  risen,  and  signified  to  all 
around  that  the  hour  of  repose  was  at  hand,  if  he 
could  but  discover  the  glimmering  of  some  light 
from  the  convent,  when  all  the  rest  was  in  darkness, 
he  felt  that  that  was  the  cell  of  his  dear  Hildegonde, 
who  then  watched  and  prayed  for  the  power  of  resig- 
nation. Two  years,  passed  in  these  solitary  and 
mournful  occupations,  had  wasted  his  strength.  One 
morning,  as  he  was,  as  usual,  watching  the  cloister, 
he  saw  persons  digging  a  grave  in  the  place  appointed 
for  the  eternal  repose  of  the  servants  of  God.  A 
secret  voice  whispered  him,  that  it  was  for  Hilde- 
gonde. He  inquired,  and  learned  the  fatal  truth. 
For  the  first  time  he  descended  to  the  holy  habita- 
tion, which  hitherto  he  had  held  sacred,  not  daring 
to  profane  it  by  his  presence,  whilst  his  heart  was 
agitated  by  feelings  so  earthly.  He  assisted  at  the 
last  sad  rite,  threw  the  earth  upon  the  remains 
of  his  dearly  beloved,  joined  his  ardent  aspirations 
with  those  of  the  nuns  for  the  eternal  repose  of  her 
soul ;  but,  overcome  with  grief,  he  returned  home, 
and  was  found,  shortly  afterwards,  in  his  usual  seat 
at  the  door  of  his  cell,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
cloister,  but  fixed  in  death.  He  was  allowed  to  be 
buried  in  the  same  place,  and  near  to  her  who  alone 
in  the  world  had  rendered  him  insensible  to  glory. 


*.y 


^ 


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n;.v 


v^' 


